


The Darkest Hour

by eastern_wind



Series: The Darkest Hour [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Humor, Dragons, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Forgotten Ones, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, I LIVE FOR IT, Light Angst, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Major Illness, Major Original Character(s), Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Old Gods, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Red Lyrium, Relatives everywhere, Seals everywhere, Song Lyrics, Songfic, Templar Abilities, Templar Inquisitor, Trevelyan (Dragon Age) has Sibling(s), Trevelyans are really big family, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, also creative use of Keren Hawke, bloodlines, cause he's an awesome bastard and i love him, creative use of glyphs, pansexual Inquisitor, this is a long story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-22 12:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 82,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14309079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eastern_wind/pseuds/eastern_wind
Summary: Tairinn Agni Trevelyan is just a Templar who spends her life on the road with a close-knit team led by Knight-Captain Evelyn. Just as she makes another attempt to overcome lyrium addiction, her team is sent to guard the Conclave and everything goes straight to hell from there. Or, maybe it has never been alright.This is the story about lies and truths, illnesses and cures, enemies turning friends and friends having hidden agendas. This is the story about past hunting people to make them face consequences of their actions. And maybe, just maybe, somewhere along the way this is the story about love.





	1. A Guest in Her Own Home

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, ideas, any type of feedback is highly appreciated :)
> 
> Also drop by my [tumblr](http://away-with-eastern-wind.tumblr.com/) for additional info, sketches, [faceclaim list](http://away-with-eastern-wind.tumblr.com/post/174804119107/the-darkest-hour-faceclaim-list) and other story related stuff!

_Drakonis 3rd,  9:41 Dragon Age_

_Saturday_

The cut had only started to heal and was itching mercilessly. It was an uneven wound, covered with a crimson dark crust of dried blood, thay stretched through Tairinn's left hand from the base of the palm to the crook of her elbow in parallel to veins. It pulled at the skin with every movement and, Andraste's holy knickers, it was going to drive her crazy!

Tairinn huffed indignantly as she crossed a well lit hall of the estate, not really in the mood to watch her ancestors stare at her haughtily from the portraits. Great-grandma Tairinn - her namesake - was smirking as usual, not by chance looking like a descendant of those stuck up Pentaghasts that had been playing with their dead in Nevarra for longer than Kingdom itself existed. Four times great-grandfather Liam's portrait was hanging slightly off again, a tiny little bit to the right. Father always said that the old man had just been trying to be closer to his wife Oda's portrait, whom he loved dearly even after his death. _Well_ , Tairinn thought with reluctant smile, _whatever pleases the Father. Yeah, there'll be a lot of pleasing soon._

It seemed that the Maker, if he was free enough today to leave his pedestal and play with some stray mortal's life, decided that the usual charade wouldn’t be enough. Now she would also have to pretend that her hand was just fine in hopes that mother won’t see more than is safe for her. The woman could never react to the constant companions of the warrior - bruises and wounds - as calmly as father did. Maybe it was his military training speaking, maybe he just didn’t care as long as Tairinn stayed alive and in one piece, but mother... She had to remain in blissful ignorance for as long as it was possible.

Holding back from the urge to at least slightly rub the inflamed skin, the daughter of Stefan Bann Trevelyan pulled down the sleeve of the gray-blue camisole crumpled from a long lying in a saddlebag, hastily smoothed unevenly cut dark slightly wavy hair and set her shoulders straight before entering the dining room. She had missed them, truly,  but there was no denying that of all times to come home, this was one of the worst. 

"Ethan, dear! Oh, I’m so glad you came to visit!" A fifty-something looking woman with a body made of sharp angles and straight lines raised her unusually pale for her clearly Antivan complexion face. Adriana Rhonne Alamilla smiled at her. Him. It was a warm expression of a loving mother, only... Tairinn couldn't let herself forget, this one wasn't for her. Had never been for her. “Three years, isn’t it? Thanks the Maker, I’m so happy to see you, my boy!”

Tall and thin as a stick, she gracefully rose from her seat, but swayed suddenly after taking a few steps towards the doors, leaning on the high back of her husband's chair. Wearily shaking his head, a man whose shoulders could rival with some doorframes in width slipped out from his seat with surprising quickness for his size. 

"Adrie, dear, we’re all very pleased to see him, but you don’t have to strain yourself too much. You know, it's dangerous for you to worry," he said, gently putting his arm around his wife’s waist. After all these years, in health and in illness he still adored her greatly, once again proving true the old Ostwick saying "Love of the Trevelyan is once and for all". Tairinn's lips curled downwards as she thought, _I'm sorry, Mother, even in this I'm still no good_. 

The woman ignored his protests though, gracefully waving them off, and simply let him help her return to her place. Her voice was high and rang with a barely hidden amusement. “But, Stefan, tis is such a joyous moment! How come I cannot hug my dear boy?” She batted her lashes at the man playfully, making him laugh.

"I never said you cannot, love." He turned to Tairinn and beckoned her closer. "Don't stand at the door, son, come in! We've been waiting."

Trying to stifle a heavy sigh, she threw a careful glance at her mother. Yes, it was true. With every visit she seemed to be thinner, paler, as if becoming more transparent, and now Tairinn could no longer attribute it to her own growth. Her mother's illness slowly but surely took its toll on her. Getting her act together, Tairinn smiled roughly and crossed the brightly-lit hall with a sweeping step, letting the heels of her boots sound like a booming rhythm along the carpeted floor. She dropped on one knee in front of mother's chair and gently, as if afraid to break her, embraced Lady Trevelyan, trying not to press Adriana too close to her own body.

Sixteen years ago she and her brothers had been alike as three peas in a pod and nobody had even tried to distinguish between Maxwell, Tairinn and Ethan. But now nature already took its course and on the way from Hercinia the woman had to stop at some cheap tavern to rebind her chest a little tighter and trim the hair that had been growing freely for over three years. Of course, it was a pity to get rid of the braid, which was quite convenient and didn’t need constant care, but there was too much in her appearance already to cause inappropriate suspicions. Given the fragile state of Adriana, Tairinn had to be especially careful.

“How are you feeling, Mother?” For a second, it seemed that her voice had trembled more than it was acceptable or safe. The lack of practice did show, eventually. Still, the woman, even if she had noticed the change in Tairinn’s voice, clearly wrote it off for her happiness of seeing family again. Adriana’s thin fingers traced the features of Tairinn's face, searching for new scars, but she immediately pulled away as gently as possible.

“Mother?” she lowered her voice some more to ease any suspicions, just in case.

“I am absolutely fine, my dear, don’t you worry! I spend so much time outside in the garden reading these days, I barely see Stef.” Adriana smiled softly, throwing a quick glance at her husband. “Your little sister sends me fantastic scrolls every so often… Oh, how I wish she’d be with us now or you could come more often!”

Tairinn fought to keep a neutral expression. Yes, three years, apparently, were too long term, she really needed to visit home more than once every two-three years. Maybe she could pull some favors with the Captain, bargain for another day or two on their way back to Wycome after the Conclave? Adriana, oblivious to her discomfort, went on, nearly shivering with joy in her soft armchair.

“And who should be more careful,” she nodded at Stefan bemusedly, “is your father. Absolutely restless these days! Forty nine and still… He’s been showing new tricks to Brendon last week and what do you think had happened?" Her hands went up to accent her displeasure and Tairinn barely contained a snort. "He pulled a muscle!”

“I’m fine, Adrie,” Stefan tried to appease her, but to no avail.

"No you don't!" She shook her head and sighed in surrender. "Did it stop him from continuing, do you think?”

Grinning, Tairinn watched her father squirm in his place. The moment their eyes met, he winked at her and reached out for a handshake. Stefan put both of his palms around her left in a traditional greeting and her eyes watered from the pain that shot up through her arm up to the elbow. She stifled a hiss and took her hand away swiftly. No matter how many years have passed since she left the Trevelyan estate, his grip was still firm and confident.

Tairinn knew she inherited her stubbornness from her father and, no matter how sick or tired he ever was, he’d never miss a training session because of something like pulled muscle. Him being him, “No way!” she laughed.

“Right you are,” Adriana shot her husband a disapproving glance. “So Maxwell had to see grandfather Daniel off all by himself. Totally unacceptable. You know how he is and we have a tradition to uphold!”

Tairinn saw that even now mother could barely contain an exasperated smile and her silver grey eyes were sparkling. Stefan, bless his easygoing nature, tried to look ashamed and just opened his mouth to say something when the doors flew open, banging loudly on the stone walls. All three Trevelyans immediately turned to the entrance, eyeing a newcomer.

“Hey, brother! Where you’ve been all this time, huh?”

Tairinn smiled broadly when she heard her brother’s voice and stepped forward to meet him. Tall like their mother and broad-shouldered like father, Maxwell Edward Trevelyan had tawny skin and freckles littering his nose and cheeks. He wasa almost a mirror image of Tairinn except for a neatly trimmed goatee and long wavy hair gathered in a careless bun at the back of his neck. Oh, how she had missed these honey colored eyes, always so warm and full of mischief!

While she scrambled for an answer, a thin pale scar that crossed Max's right eyebrow curled questioningly. It was yet another thing Tairinn shared with her brothers and, although all three twins had it too, the scar was by no means a genetic trait.

Being home brought back lots of memories, some welcome and some not, but that scar had a story that in some way decided Tairinn's future. She immediately remembered how Ethan had fallen off an old apple tree in the garden when they were about seven years old. He had never been good at something that required even the most basic physical training, but oh boy he hated to fall behind his brother and sister. It came as no surprise that, when young Max decided to build a tree house and quickly got Tairinn onto the plan, bookwormish Ethy climbed with them despite his fear of heights. For that he paid no more than five minutes later, falling into the thorny rose bushes. The tree house had never been built of course and Ethan gained a deep cut through his right eyebrow - his first and only scar to date that Tairinn knew about.

Her Ethy wouldn't be himself if he told on his siblings though. No matter the pain and a huge amount of blood, Tairinn's brother hadn't cried neither when she and Max sneaked him to Edna the housemaid, hiding from more strict servants and their parents in the least used corridors of the estate, nor when the old woman treated his wound with stinking and terribly stingy salve made of elfroot and crystal grace. Well, she and Max both found out how awful the salve was the hard way: just a few couple of hours later they stole a knife from the kitchens and, trying not to let no cry of pain out, cut each other’s brows. They didn’t want their brother to suffer alone and now Tairinn couldn’t even remember whose idea it’d been. The only thing that mattered was that everything Trevelyan twins did, they did together.

 

And now the owner of an exact copy of her scar looked at her with a joyful smile, opening his arms for a welcoming embrace. Shaking her head, Tairinn pushed the memories of her childhood back and grabbed her brother in a bear hug.

“Glad you’re back, sis,” he whispered softly so their mother wouldn’t hear him from her place at the table. “Still a hopeless wanderer, aren’t ya?”

“You can’t even imagine how much I’ve missed you, Max!” she said in a hushed voice, squeezing her brother tightly, and added a little louder, “And they say men change after marriage, but you haven’t changed a bit! Where is Helga? Last time we met when, five years ago? More?”

“You wouldn’t believe this,” for a moment Max’s face turned into a in a dreary mask, but his eyes immediately gave him away, “she left me... for her mom...”

With a snort the woman slapped his shoulder and let him go finally, but not before she had a final word. “And I’ve always said it, you are unbearable!”

Max tried to punch her bicep playfully in retaliation, but Tairinn hadn't spent most of her life training to let it slide. With a taunting whistle she dodged the mock attack and added a flick on his nose to her record.

They both laughed, stepping back from each other and at the same moment she felt something pulling at her sleeve. The fabric slid along the unhealed scar and her hand was pierced with a sharp stab of pain. Trying not to give out her discomfort by any movement, Tairinn turned to the only member of the family who could welcome her this way.

“Hi there, Bren! Oh,” she rubbed her eyes with a free hand to wipe the tears that gathered there and looked her younger brother over again, “you’ve grown quite a bit, young man!”

Laughing softly she put her arm around him, ruffling his hair with the other, then moved back, examining the changes in Brendon that happened during those three years that they had not seen each other. The boy, unlike the older children of Lord Trevelyan, took after the grandmother Sybill on their father's line: even now it was evident he wouldn’t grow up to be as tall as Maxwell or herself. But, on the other hand, the Maker did grant Brendon with grace and complexion of a dancer, it was noticeable even in the way Bren moved. His body language was so soft, he seemed to flow from position to position, turning before Tairinn, letting her look him over. She could only hope that father wasn’t too zealous in teaching Brendon how to wield a two-handed sword, a family tradition that eventually led her to become who she was now. It was absolutely clear that with such body the boy’s future was with bards, rouges or duelists, not warriors.

“Ow, stop it!” The boy blushed, seemingly embarrassed, and adjusted the unruly bangs that fell over his eyes. “I’ve just got a few inches taller and you haven’t seen Erin yet!”

“I’m late?” Tairinn eyed the brother sadly and shook her head. “Eh, it seemed I got everything planned out to the minute... Captain even let me leave a couple of days earlier, so I could see the whole family before the Conclave. Was she sent to another Circle?”

“What are you talking about? Ethan, Circles, now? We, bless the Maker, are neither in Ferelden, nor in Orlais, but even here it’s too turbulent. Our Circle was disbanded peacefully we've been told, but still…” Bren's face clearly reflected all the worry he had for his sister. If grace and flexibility came to him naturally, there was a lot of work on facial expressions ahead.

“She stays here at least until the war is ended.” Stefan's tone did not leave room for discussion. Apparently, he believed that she as a Templar would ask for the sister to be returned back to the Circle as soon as possible. However, she didn't.

“You’re right.” But what she thought and didn't say was,  _I just hope the phylacteries were either lost or destroyed, or... I'll talk to uncle Fred, he should know._

Tairinn didn’t want to argue. She just hoped that some of Free Marches’ Circles won’t collapse completely, as this will undoubtedly make Chantry go wild. And to avoid this the negotiations should not only take place, but also be successful. It was two years ago when the Knight-Captain said that revolts had begun in the Circles of Orlais. The news from Ferelden’s Circle on the Lake Calenhad were sparse but grim. Kirkwall? She didn’t want to think about that mess ever again.

 

The silence dragged on and Maxwell, being his cheerful self, clasped his sister’s shoulder and ushered her to the table, clearly deciding not to wait for Lady Trevelyan to begin worrying again. The servants started to bustle about preparing the dinner and Tairinn allowed herself to relax and drift off, surrounded by familiar sounds and voices of her home. She felt at ease here, happy to have a small moment of her childhood back even if it meant being another person in her Mother's eyes for the past sixteen years. For Ethan, for his dreams to come true she was ready to do anything. She was prepared to play his role.

The dinner was served surprisingly fast and Tairinn had already taken a sip of her favorite perry when a slender figure gracefully slipped through the small archway not far from the main entrance to the dining room. A young woman shot her an exuberant smile, moving with a practiced ease of a young mage. Erin.

 

Trevelyans had always had many children, but when twenty two years old Adriana gave birth to triplets, it was celebrated like there’s no tomorrow. Nearly all family members, close and distant alike arrived to the estate to congratulate still shocked parents and Lady Sybill Amanda Trevelyan, the Head of the House at that time. Maxwell, the oldest, was of course pronounced the heir to his father, Ethan was meant for the Chantry and Tairinn was promised to the heir of the noble family from Tantervale at nine years old. Children had been growing up healthy and strong and everything seemed fine until the Solace of 9:25 when it became evident that Adriana was once again pregnant.

Stefan, who by that time had already taken over the lordship from Lady Sybill, was so excited he immediately started house renovation to accommodate a new kid. Well, he was merely excited till the moment his wife gave birth to Brendon and Erin and after that? Once again in a single generation Trevelyans had twins and this event went down in the family history books along with the first and only time Stefan, calm and unshakable man who ruled the family business with a firm hand, fainted.

Brendon was free to choose his own future to some extent as there were much less obligations before the House and the Chantry looming over him.  So at seven or maybe eight, Tairinn had a hard time remembering (mostly because she had her hands full fighting Darkspawn that infested Wycome Circle out of nowhere), the boy announced he wanted to become a warrior much like his father and her. But neither Ostwick’s regular army, nor Templar Order did not appeal to him: the stories about service in the Circle that Tairinn had been dutifully sending back home with Ethan's signature on letters did not seem to interest her younger brother. The boy wanted to become a Chevalier, go to Orlais, study at the Academy. Honorable deeds, he called it and Tairinn only smiled as she read those rare news.

She had that gut feeling that Bren could become a good bard: he’d always had a talent for singing, could play lute quite passable thanks to Maxwell's lessons and with proper training could learn other, more  _clandestine_ aspects of this art. But she wasn’t going to give him this idea because real bards chose their own ways, that she had a chance to witness with her own eyes.

Erin was entirely different. Polite and carefree, a girl with a face of an angel and her mother’s grey eyes, she was the child Adriana had always dreamt about. She had a keen interest in the Game, dancing and proper looks, spent most of her days with mother and never ever touched a weapon of any kind sharper than a silver knife with her hands. At least until her magic manifested when she barely turned eight.

It must have been a family thing as all Trevelyan children tried to climb something really tall and dangerous at some point in their lives. One winter morning the younger twins slipped away from Edna's almost all-seeing eye and somehow got onto the sloping roof of the house through the attic window. Ice that had already covered the scarlet tiles was too thin and Brandon slipped down, unsuccessfully trying to grab onto the ledge, when something weightless and unfamiliar grabbed him firmly and pushed back into the open window.

It was Maxwell who noticed strange sounds from his hiding place in the winter garden where he was secretly meeting with his future wife, Helga. Later in a letter to Tairinn he wrote that he’d been waiting for something like that to happen for a long time already, memories of his own childhood risky mishaps still too fresh. Well, they both knew, usually it was much more dangerous for mother’s health than their own.

A little less than twenty minutes later Max, Helga, Brendon and completely shaken Erin were sitting in the office of Lord Trevelyan, watching him write three letters that were to be sent by the crows to different parts of Free Marches. Two were meant for Ethan and Tairinn, informing them of their sister’s condition and resurfacing of a gift, the third ended up in the Circle of Ostwick.

Erin had been studying there for eight years till the very beginning of 9:41 when the Grand-Enchantress pronounced the Circle disbanded. Thankfully for Trevelyans, their youngest daughter managed to leave peacefully, protected by Stefan’s brother Knight-Captain Frederic, and now she was staying in the safety of the estate until the end of the war.

 

“You were right, Bren!” Tairinn smirked, leaving her chair to meet the young mage. “Sister, is that really you?” They haven’t seen each other for so long, Tairinn still expected to see a little girl in a frilly dress to run to her with a toothy grin. Instead, she was momentarily blinded by the whirlwind of a long curly hair and brightly colored robe decorated with an intricate embroidery. Erin smelled like crystal grace, sage and magic, but Tairinn didn’t care. She loved her sister and that was the only thing that mattered.

“If you guys didn’t tell me in advance that Ethy is in Markham, I’d never believe that’s really you!” the girl whispered excitedly. “You two are so alike!”

“And what about Max?” The Templar laughed devilishly, hugging her sister once again.

“Well...” Erin looked her over, evaluating, and spoke in a full voice. “You’d look great with longer hair. The beard though...” She threw a glance at Maxwell and giggled, “that’s disgusting!”

“Oh, thank you, dear sister!” The man sing-songed indignantly. “My family loves me...”

"Don’t you worry, darling," Adriana watched her children bicker with a smile, "A beard is a sign of maturity, it is very noble, just look at your father." Stefan immediately squared his shoulders, winking at Max, and calmly continued to disassemble his food with a knife. Neither his children nor wife decided to inform him that a thin twig of parsley was comfortably sitting in his truly magnificent graying mustache.

Sighing happily Tairinn relaxed in her chair once again, slowly drinking her perry from a curvy glass. She was home, not for long, but even these rare moments filled her with joy and gave her power to move forward, overcome the pain and exhaustion from long and truly tiring training sessions. Her face darkened, but only for a second. She’d meet with her team the day after tomorrow and now Tairinn could forget about the war raging in the south, she could just stay with her family. Maybe a letter to Ethan was in order too.

As if reading her mind, bar the fact that according to the mother it was Tairinn living in Markham Chantry, Adriana clapped her hands twice and exclaimed happily:

“My darlings, why don’t we have some tea in the drawing room? Maybe we could write a letter to our Tairinn. Oh, how I wish she was with us too now…”

“That would be great, my love.” Stefan nodded, his strong hands ready to hold his wife's weight. "Let me help you." They smiled at each other like there was no one else in the room, two people that had met by chance in Antiva City and fell so hard for each other, they never parted again.

Tairinn watched them wistfully, knowing that her chances to ever have something like this are slim to none. “That we should do, Mother,” she agreed quietly and moved to leave the room. She had appearances to uphold.

“It's time for us to tell my little sister the latest news!” Maxwell wiggled his eyebrows at Tairinn, while Stefan gently helped Adriana to get up from the table. Tairinn grazed him with a threatening gaze and, letting Erin hang on to her healthy arm, opened the heavy doors. 


	2. Another's life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tairinn has a long discussion with Maxwell. Not all things templarly are as they may seem.

Finally closing her tired eyes, Tairinn sprawled on top of her old bed. The evening had been great, giving her a short respite from the strenuous training that Captain Evelyn put the team through during these past months. Still even a family gathering could not soothe woman’s agitation: one more night and the day after tomorrow she would again be forced to put on her heavy armor and join the squad to sail to the Conclave.

Tairinn had always been told she was doing the right thing. That the Templars were the very force that could preserve a fragile world order constantly undermined by the blunt statements of the mages and Chantry's angry backlashes. But sometimes, in the silence and loneliness of her own room, Tairinn allowed herself a moment to imagine what would have happened if it was not her to carry this heavy burden. If only it was not her…

Old door opened with a creaking noise, making her eyes fly open and sad thoughts drift to the back of her mind. It was useless, and all this longing didn’t do much to strengthen her already crumbling faith, which the Templars needed so much and she never had enough.

“Tairinn, what’s wrong?” Maxwell quietly slipped into the room and closed the door tightly, propping the handle with the back of a nearby chair just in case. They always did it all those years back before sneaking around the house slowly falling into the blissful midnight slumber. “You look like shit, if not the worse, sis.”

Tairinn winced. Max had always been the most observant of three of them, at least when it came to emotions, and had really bad timing asking this question. She neither had no intent to fall apart in front of her brother, nor courage to tell him the truth. But before the woman even started to gather her thoughts to give him a passable story of the long journey and just being tired, Maxwell dragged a low stool to the bed, sitting down on it like a theyrn on a throne and slapped his sister’s arm playfully. “No excuses! You lie, I'll see it through anyway! Do you want trouble?”

He he barely had time to finish the sentence because Tairinn hissed, unable to hide the aching pain in the wound anymore, and, cradling her left hand close to chest, swiftly sat up on the bed. “Andraste’s holy knickers, watch out, will ya!”

Max gently took her hand, not really paying attention to his sister’s protests and pulled it closer. Realizing that her resistance was futile, Tairinn sighed and carefully rolled up her sleeve, revealing the cut that had just begun to scar. His frown made him look stern and serious just like their grandmother used to be when his long cold fingers gently touched tender reddened skin, outlining the wound, and then returned to the wrist. A moment later Maxwell's amber eyes were already searching the room for her first-aid kit.

They could always read each other, communicating almost without words. Now, watching her brother’s face shift through these expressions, she already knew what he would ask and didn't hesitate to answer. “Left it in the stables, in saddlebags. Why carry anything back and forth if the day after tomorrow first thing in the morning I’ll be back on the road again?” Squeezing his fingers once, she slowly pried her hand away. “It's just a scratch, it will heal soon. Just itches.”

“That for sure isn’t a scratch, Agni! It looks like someone tried to slice your veins open!” Maxwell's tan face lost its color, his eyes wide as he searched Tairinn's face.  All these years later he still called her by this absolutely disgusting mistake of a middle name and every time he said it, it made her cringe. “Maker, if everything’s so bad you could write to me at least! Between you, me and Ethan we would’ve come up with something. I don’t know how, but I would’ve taken you away from them. Why didn’t you say anything, sis?” The man ran his fingers into his thick dark hair and clenched his fists. The bun, usually messy, became even more shapeless and a few more strands immediately fell on Max's face. “I know, I get it, you promised Ethan to do it... But not at the cost of your own life!”

Struck by the outburst, Tairinn recoiled, but seeing his bright eyes filled with so much worry, she quickly gathered her wits. She crawled to the very edge of the bed, leaned over and hugged him, inhaling the herbal scent of his favorite soap, and whispered softly, “Don’t talk nonsense, silly. I would never. Hey, trust me this one time.” Gently pushing the wave of curly hair from his face, she flicked Maxwell on the nose and leaned back against the thick mattress, tugging him to follow. “Yeah, the Order is… messed up, but I can deal with it. Nothing, well, except of war in the south, is out of place, it’s just exhausting and lyrium…” Frowning at the flood of memories, Tairinn curled into a ball on the bed and Maxwell immediately sat down beside her, ready to listen.

 

Trevelyan siblings loved their parents each in their own way, but it’s only each other they trusted entirely. Tairinn… Well, from the very childhood she was their protector, always tho one taking the blow, confessing for the tricks played by reckless Max or cautious, but very easily distracted and clumsy Ethan. Sometimes it seemed to Maxwell that she was the elder one between three of them, not he or Ethy. Always ready to help her brothers in every possible way, Tairinn never aspired to be the center of attention, preferring to be a reliable support system, no matter if they fled their mother’s sometimes too watchful eye to steal sour apples from the kitchen or if she stayed to guard the doors while Ethan was looking for a new book in father's office.

It seemed that nothing had changed since she and Ethan traded places, but it were these moments like tonight when Maxwell could see how hard it was for Tairinn to live someone else’s life. It wasn’t her habit to share what she’d been through, but every few years when fates gave them a chance to see each other again, he would sit down next to her and listen.

Sometimes she told him funny stories about some short-sighted rookie who somehow managed to plunge a sword so deep into a training dummy it took five recruits to pull it out or how the young mages from the Circle of Wycome set fire to the water in a nearby lake during some unholy rite. Sometimes they just stayed silent. And sometimes, like today, Tairinn would lay her head on his lap, and in a quiet, detached voice tell him how she really felt.

 

“Lyrium is a nasty stuff, Max. Fucked up. Only a few grains and it’s as if you’re not quite you, but a little bit bigger, stronger, more capable. The sword sings in your hands, the shield doesn’t weigh anything, spells just pass by, unable to reach, not harming you. It feels like you can touch the sky, become the sky... If you only take one more sip. And another. And then, when you’re high enough to barely survive the fall, this fata morgana turns out to be nothing and you’re left all alone with yourself...” Tairinn was trembling, her fingers curled into tight fists were shaking visibly. “...Weak. Helpless. Broken. But that’s not the worst part, dear brother.” She turned slightly and looked at him.

Maxwell felt the bile rise in his throat: instead of her dark ember eyes, he was met with empty black swamps encircling a thin, barely noticeable bright gold irises. Tairinn's forehead was sweaty, shivers ran up and down her body and only her voice remained firm and completely devoid of emotion. “They believe, Max. Maker take them, they do. It’s not that easy to become a Templar, much harder to rise in ranks, that’s what I know. For how many years have I been trying to find at least an echo, a shadow of that true faith in myself… I can freaking cite the Chant of Light from any canticle too now. Does it make me any better? And still, apparently, I'm good enough at pretending, since the Order still accepts me.” Tairinn's smirk was angry and cruel. She bit out an edgy laugh and turned away, trying to regain composure. Maxwell kept silent.

“Almost every Templar is a fanatic, but it’s for their own good. Our faith must be unshakable, Knight-Commanders say, but it is only blind in the end, for us not to be afraid of what we have to do. I'm not talking about some chanting before we go to sleep, no-o-o," she hissed and the man couldn't stop but watch as her sharp canines draw blood from her chapped lower lip. "If Knight-Commander says jump? Most will, without thinking. She declares the Right of Annulment? Almost no one will even flinch before it’s too late.”

Closing his eyes, Maxwell just held her tightly, not ready to see the her empty stare.

“Faith leads people to the Order.” Tairinn's words were filled with hatred so evident, it choked her. “And lyrium is a leash that won’t let anyone go. A drug that binds us to the Chantry, invisible but so damn strong.” A minute passed, then another. He waited. His eyes flew open as his sister's hand gently touched his cheek. “I promised Ethan and I will serve the Order in his stead.” Unspilled tears clouded her vision but she did not pay attention. “He deserves happiness. His place is in Markham, he’s a worthy Brother and a successful scholar, but, oh Max, you wouldn’t know how I sometimes want for it to stop.”

She nearly whispered these last words.

The sight of his hurting sister broke Maxwell's heart, but he knew that trying to change her mind was useless. She chose this path and will follow it to the end, wherever it led her, so the heir of the House Trevelyan simply embraced Tairinn even more tightly and silently promised himself to do everything to ease her burden at the very least.

A few minutes later the woman almost calmed down and awkwardly backed from her brother. She tried not allowing herself to let out that black, heavy hatred that was boiling in her soul, almost pouring over the edge. Lyrium withdrawal only made her more emotional, but Tairinn wasn’t going to succumb to temptation and deliberately left the first-aid kit containing a small wooden box with the drug in the saddlebag in the stables. She’d been enduring for nearly nine weeks now, the last three of which Knight-Captain Evelyn had been setting the team through every scenario that could possibly happen during their future trip to Ferelden, sparing no time, strength and soldiers, preparing them for potential skirmishes. Another four days it took Tairinn to arrive to Ostwick and it had been, perhaps, the longest period without lyrium in past thirteen years.

Last time Tairinn gave up after the seventh week. Now the filthy blue madness was slowly leaving her blood and it would be foolish and unreasonable to surrender. The desire to throw the box into the nearest pit was unbearable, but Trevelyan knew chances she would have to give up the painful, but so much needed absence of the drug before the Conclave were high. And then the damned lyrium will sing in her blood again, filling her mind with deceptive power and promising so much of what it was never going to give.

 

Maxwell watched her warily, not understanding how he could have accepted this stupid plan. Of course, they were only ten, but still! If Tairinn hadn't gone to Wycome instead of Ethan, now his little brother would have most likely lived in the local Chantry. It was clear as day that the Templars did not have a need in a clumsy boy who was much better at using the pen and inkstand than even a short sword. Or, perhaps, he would have remained in the estate? But then Ethan would have had to say goodbye to the dream of becoming a researcher, a scholar like Brother Genitivi whom he idolized as a kid.

And where would Agni be? She was never an ardent follower of Andraste, and the Chant of Light could never hold her interest for long, barely staying in her mind, at least until it became clear that she would need it to join the Order. Chantry career could hardly please her, the happiest he’d ever seen her was while mastering the traditional techniques of Trevelyans under the guidance of their father. Strong and fast, Tairinn instantly followed his instructions with ease and could wield a training two-handed sword with amazing accuracy and grace even as a child. Shaking his head, Maxwell smiled sadly.

Agni could hardly ever become good and, what was so important to Mother, traditional, quiet and obedient future wife of some young noble from Tantervale with a stick up his ass. No, his sister would have continued to live with her sword, ignore frilly dresses for the sake of light armor given to her by father for her eighth birthday and to drive Adriana crazy with it. Was that why Tairinn suggested she and Ethan trade places? Well, persuading Mother that she was very interested in devoting herself to Chantry service could be much more harder if not for the twins being born and Adriana’s illness becoming more apparent.

Stefan calmly accepted his daughter’s rational argumentation and supported her decision, trying to give her at least one opportunity to escape from Adriana’s untiring control. The woman was too afraid that Tairinn would follow in the footsteps of her grandmother, and that one day she would not be able to control the Voice that had awakened when the girl was still six years old. In the end Agni left the estate on the eve of her eleventh birthday with along with Ethan. Uncle Frederick, Stefan's brother, escorted them to Markham and from there Tairinn went to Wycome along with a Templar squad returning to the Monastery of Her Last Word from their mission somewhere west. It seemed that everyone was minding their own business now and from time to time Max even almost managed to convince himself of this.

 

“Hey, stop brooding!” With a barely there smile Tairinn poked her brother in the forehead with a calloused finger, finally getting back to her usual self. “Isn’t it a tad too early to wear such a mournful expression? I'm still here and nearly in perfect order.”

“I wish you could stay,” he answered simply, not really wanting to let her go again.

“I’d like that too, very much, truth be told.” She sighed softly, shaking her head, making unevenly cut strands fall to her eyes. She blew them away with a huff and spoke on, “But we both know it’s impossible. The Conclave is very important not only for Ferelden and Orlais, Max, the war touched all of Thedas in a way. Well, maybe except Anderfels and Par Vollen, but that’s another story. You heard what happened in Kirkwall?”

Maxwell nodded sharply. Uncontrolled mages, insane Templars, bloodthirsty qunari - it all was far, far away, but echoes of what nearly destroyed the City of Chains reached even Ostwick. Only now did the man for the first time wondered what if it was Tairinn there in Kirkwall during the uprising? The thought made him weary. She never talked or wrote about it, but... Trevelyans had received only a couple of letters from her during the whole 9:37, and those that came were short and contained more questions than information about the life of Tairinn and her well-being. Meanwhile, she went on, ignoring the strange expression on her brother’s face. “We simply cannot allow this to happen again, no way. The Conclave is our chance, no matter how small it may seem.”

The man couldn't help but snicker, “Grasping at straws here, huh?” A moment later his ribs met with Tairinn's fist. Not unkindly though, for he knew this woman could snap him in halves and wouldn't even break a sweat by doing so.

“The influence of Justinia is of utmost importance, Max," she sighed. "If someone can force the parties to sit down and negotiate, it's her. Maybe I'm not that devout, but if I have to choose something to believe in, then I believe in her.”

In this Tairinn was absolutely right, the Divine Justinia V was hardly a saint, but the place on the Sunburst Throne was hers and rightfully so. She, though with reservations, was appreciated by the Chantry, idolized by the common people, and even mages who weren’t really prone to condoning this religious institution listened to her appeals.

“Think you’ll have a chance to meet the Most Holy?” he pondered.

The woman smiled mischievously and her eyes glittered with gold from under the lowered eyelids. “Who knows! The Captain said our team will stand guard on the day of the opening, so everything is possible.”

“Oh, dear sister, and here you are, just in the middle of it. I don't even know whether to be jealous or sympa-a-a-athetic.” Maxwell tried to stifle the yawn, but unsuccessfully. Judging by the moons slowly creeping towards the horizon outside the window, the most of the night had already passed and it was about three and a something hours before dawn.

“Don't put no more garbage in ya head!" Tairinn said with a grin, "You’d better go to sleep, Max. We are no longer six, we cannot fit into one bed now.”

Maxwell obediently vacated his spot, stretched, letting his limbs relax from sitting in an uncomfortable position for so long, and already at the door asked again, “You really sure you can deal with it, Agni? If you need any help, just tell me and we'll think of something, I promise!” She just huffed and shooed him away.

“Everything will be all right, stop fussing! Come on, go to sleep, worryhead!” Jumping off the bed, the woman embraced her brother for a second, at the same time removing the chair that wouldn’t let anyone to open the door. “Sleep. Now!”

 

Closing the door behind Max, Tairinn put the chair back in its place. She knew she won’t sleep today - her body was too stressed from an episode, but a few hours of meditation could help her replenish some mental resources and won’t give her nightmares fueled by a lack of lyrium. _So, no more torment for my tired mind for tonight_ , she thought locking the door. _The chair will serve as a “do not disturb” sign for the servants, and even family won’t interfere with it. Enough of midnight revelations for one day._

She hastily washed herself in a tiny basin that cooled off long ago and changed her clothes in a small room behind an inconspicuous door next to the bookshelves, then went to a small rug by the fireplace. Wearing nothing more than a long linen shirt and underwear, she shifted to take an uncomfortable but familiar meditation pose that was her shield from everything she didn’t want to think about for past nineteen years. Eyes shut, she slowly disconnected from the quiet whispers of the night and rustles of the leaves that were only just starting to appear after the winter’s grasp on nature started to loosen, listening only to the beating of her heart and the words that sounded in her head in the deep voice of the Revered Mother Nita.

> _Blessed are they who stand before_
> 
> _The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._
> 
> _Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._
> 
> \- Benedictions 4:10


	3. Family Traditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some questions are a little harder to answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took me so long to translate the third chapter T.T Back to the schedule from now on!

_Drakonis 4th, 9:41 Dragon Age_

_Sunday_

Three hours later Tairinn opened her sore eyes only to shut them again with a groan, hiding from the first signs of dawn with a throbbing left hand. The window pane, blurred and cloudy, let the bright rays of the rising sun pass into the room with little resistance, painting the walls trimmed with pine wood in the color of murky gold. Stifling a woeful moan the woman rose slowly from her rigid position, still a little wobbly on her stiff legs, and went to dip her head into the icy water in the toilet room.

Thoughts got a little bit clearer. Tairinn dressed up and left for the stables, choosing to drop by the kitchens on her way out.

The vast space filled with ovens, boxes and crates met her with usual noises - sizzling of the meat on the frying pan, rhythmic tapping of a knife on the cutting board, patter of servants’ feet. And oh, those smells... Tairinn always loved this place: no matter how early she rose up to train with father during her childhood years, kitchens had already been bustling with life.

The servants smiled and waved happily at her and, despite the hunger and swarm of unpleasant thoughts that hadn’t been suppressed by her nightly vigil, the woman felt the corners of her mouth rise at the sight of them. Hoping to grab a piece of bread and some water before the morning exercise, Tairinn moved toward the furnace roaring with heat, but grey-haired woman with a face of Ander and smile of Antivan intercepted her movement half-way, squeezing the young Trevelyan in her arms for a moment and nearly cracking her bones in the process.

"Edna!" Tairinn nearly squealed in surprise. "You scared me!"

“Got yourself caught again, child?” The wrinkled face of the cook blossomed with a happy smile, making her look twenty years younger. “Grown up well, I see! Just like your father… Never paying attention to anything when food is around. Wanted to steal the pie again?”

“Only if it was cooked by you and just a small piece! I have a spar soon and I'm hungry like a pack of wolves.” Tairinn played along, continuing to pad towards the pie almost imperceptibly for her considerable height. “Dad’ll come to the ring soon and I have nothing to counter him except a rumbling stomach. Do you think he’ll be scared?”

“If you want to scare him, just show him those bags under your eyes. When did you sleep last time, child?”

Tairinn grimaced, realizing that it was useless to lie, but to tell the truth meant to get stuck in the kitchens for a good hour listening to Edna's sorrowful moaning about Trevelyans having absolutely no care for their own health. A very young redhead apprentice ran into the room, picked up a tray with still boiling herbal tea and disappeared into the corridor again. Tairinn squinted suspiciously at the door.

“Mother woke up already? Is the sickness getting stronger?” She tried to steer the conversation to less dangerous but more worrying for her topic. Judging by the reproachful expression on the cook’s face, the maneuver failed.

“Don’t you even think I didn’t notice you squirm here, my darling.” Fixing the gray lock back into an impeccable bun, Edna shook her finger at the swordswoman. “Adriana almost always wakes up early these days, your too well-educated for his own good brother sends her lists of completely abstruse dissertations on the history of the Chantry every month. Good luck keeping her away from them! Like mother, like son... When do you kids plan to come clean about your charade?”

Tairinn visibly shuddered. Sixteen years of staying by brother's name, coming home only to pretend being him, sign his name in letters… Yes, it was her choice, but she did this only to fulfill Ethan's dream and keep their mother's peace. O _r keep her away._ She would surely have gone insane knowing that her little “spark” had been running around with her squad all over the Free Marches trying to maintain a delicate balance for the last seven years. _And what if she just heard about Kirkwall…_

No, Tairinn preferred not to remember those horrendous months herself, shooing away any thoughts of the streets filled with the blood of innocent ordinary people and mages not involved in the uprising.  It surely didn’t have the most favorable effect on her already crumpling mood.  _At least there are no Hawkes in Ostwick, which is a good news on any day_ , Tairinn thought dryly,  _If I meet Keren anytime soon again, his staff goes right up his ass and no one stops me, be it Captain or goddamn Andraste herself._

“Never, if we have a chance,” she told Edna finally. “It’s for her own good.”

Sighing heavily, the old woman placed a mug of water and a plate of porridge in front of Tairinn. “Aren’t you putting too much pressure on yourself, child? Here, eat up. At least have a breakfast like a human being before starting your sword-waving acrobatics again.”

“Whatever is… it’s mine to bear now. There's nothing we can do.” Succumbing to a sudden urge the Templar looked into the gray, surprisingly understanding eyes of her childhood nanny. “But if I had a chance to start anew, I still would go to Wycome.”

“I know, my dear, who if not I would know." Edna patted Tairinn on the head, disheveling unevenly cut rigid hair and smiled warmly at her. Slowly, shuffling the soles of her soft shoes along the stone floor, she went to the exit from the kitchen. "You will always protect your family, even at the cost of your own life.”

The cook was gone for a long time already but Tairinn continued to sit in front of her porridge, drawing curls and patterns on it with a spoon, her gaze however was directed inward. _I just hope you didn’t have any seers in your family, Edna._

 

It took her a solid ten minutes to finally snap out of her stupor, then she swallowed breakfast without really tasting it and quickly crossed the south wing of the estate, entering the backyard through the side door. Inky black mare, a Free Marches Ranger named Hoka began tramping her hooves on the ground impatiently when she saw her rider and Tairinn took a large red apple that she had picked up from dinner yesterday from her pocket. Having given her four-legged companion her favorite delicacy, the woman checked if the horse was cleaned after their arrival and went into the stables where her saddlebags, armor and weapons were stacked.

Tairinn knew her father well. For the first hour of so he would obviously chase her around the training ground, studying how much her fighting skills had improved and what new tricks his daughter had been taught in the Order. Thus, she laid out her dark armor on the wooden floor in advance, not in the mood to get lost in the straps, and spent the next half an hour on the warm-up, stretching and running a few laps unhurriedly around the backyard.

When voices began to rise from the depths of the estate, she immediately sprinted back to the stables and began to put her armor on, knowing that she had exactly until father's foot touched the trampled ground of the training ring to prepare, then she would be ambushed by his attacks. She finished tightening the strap of the right brace already on the move, trying not to hit her knee against the shield that was still hanging from her left arm. It wouldn’t hurt, of course not, but a dull ringing and vibration that would surely start along the junctions of her armor could easily shift the focus of her attention from her father who was already walking towards the low stone fence of the training ground and that was... foolish to let happen.

 

Forty-nine years old Stephan Trevelyan was in perfect physical shape. Stocky and broad-shouldered, he walked calmly along the path strewn with small stone crumbs, his chainmail armor clinking softly. He carried a two-handed sword on his shoulder as if it was weightless. Stopping at very edge of the ring, the man looked his daughter's attire over quizzically. Thin but solid cuirass adorned with thigh-long faulds together with pauldrons and braces forged from a dark shiny metal reliably protected the upper part of her body, while long, crimson red under armor lined with golden thread covered her legs, but did not restrain movements. Instead of standard heavy greaves Tairinn stubbornly wore knee-high boots made of thick bronto skin that allowed her to move much quieter than her fully armored companions. Also, those boots never got wet during long hiking across the rugged terrain.

“I see you’ve got a new piece.” The man nodded at the maroon sash of darkened samite that with a pair of leather straps was holding in place the flask with elfroot extract.

Tairinn received it along with the rank of Knight-Lieutenant after the Ansburg Campaign of 9:39, but did nothing to report this to her family, preferring to maintain the image of a Templar who almost never left the limits of the Wycome Circle. Truly, she was damn lucky that information about promotions and appointments was usually kept secret and didn’t go beyond the limits of the Order. Therefore it couldn’t reach her parents' estate. Although, how many Trevelyans served the Chantry? Even off the top of her head Tairinn could name at least fifteen cousins and other distant Trevelyan relatives, not including Farbers or Lannons that used Trevelyan surname of their grandparents every so often too. So while she could get lost in the crowd, her little lies were safe.

She nodded and pulled her sword from its scabbard. The shield went up as Tairinn adopted defensive stance. They dropped pleasantries the moment the man jumped over the fence, grinning wickedly at her through his thick mustache.

“Well-well-well. Won’t you show me what they teach the youngsters nowadays?” Swinging his zweihander with ease Stefan Trevelyan attacked his daughter. Their dance began.

Stepping forward with her left feet Tairinn shifted her weight and covered her body with the shield, tilting it slightly to the ground. Under the pressure of shield straps the brace began to press on the healing wound on her left arm, but the Templar no longer paid attention to this unpleasant sensation, concentrated on the approaching enemy. When he swung his heavy sword in her direction, Tairinn side-stepped to the right,  swiftly moving away from the blow.

The Voice sang.

Allowing Stefan take two more steps forward, she threw her shield arm up sharply striking at his unprotected body. He sensed that something was wrong a second too late and tried to retreat immediately, but the cold metal of the shield had already crashed into his armor, pushing him backwards. Tairinn used her momentum to change the grasp on the sword that had been lying freely in her palm and struck the man from the right, aiming at his ribs. But this time her weapon didn’t reach its aim: after he’d missed the previous blow, Stefan twisted around, tilting his axis, and met Tairinn’s sword with the blade of his own, pushing its tip into the trampled ground.

For a moment both warriors froze evaluating each other, their blades crossed. Then Stefan's sword easily slid from the ground and moved back and up to rise above his head and cutting the air with a whistle-like sound. The woman immediately jumped back and fell on one knee to hide behind the shield from a powerful blow that was about to struck her. Metal clashed with a sickening sound and vibration ran along Tairinn's wounded hand, almost throwing her off balance. Trying to regain it, she allowed the zweihander to slide down the surface of the shield, shifted, pushing away from the ground, and rolled to the right while trying to get Stefan’s unprotected feet with the tip of her sword. It grazed his boot, leaving a thin line on the sturdy skin and the man hastily increased the distance between himself and his daughter, chuckling, “Nearly got me there, huh.”

“Seems like Bren is still not much of a challenge for you, father.” Tairinn joked before he advanced on her again.

Trevelyans continued the sparring for the next hour and, despite the fact that Tairinn preferred defense for most of the time, each of her counterattacks reached its aims, which couldn’t be said about her father's attacks. Finally he retreated to the fence and broke the silence. “They taught you well, as expected of the Order. Maybe even too well for a Knight-Templar.”

“Uh-huh.” Letting a small frown touch her lips, Tairinn moved to sheath her sword and unstrapped the shield, loosening the the left brace to ease the pressure. The conversation took a turn in the direction she’d so hoped to avoid.

With her hands free of weapons, she pulled off thin leather gloves and, stuffing them into the belt pouch that hung on the belt next to the flask, finally removed wet hair from her forehead. No matter how convenient it was to braid them for the last few years, she had to cut it before entering the estate and now the strands were too short, barely reaching the right ear. The left side had to be shaved again soon so that gray hair, which had settled there since the time of the Kirkwall events, wasn’t so noticeable. Grumbling unhappily, the Templar took a thin leather cord from a small pouch and tied her hair into a small bun to prevent the hair from obscuring the view again.

“What’s your rank now?” Father, apparently did not intend to back off. As always, stumbling upon a secret or a subterfuge, he had turned into a truth seeker. Habits died hard and although Stefan had never ever thought of a Chantry career, the Seekers of Truth should have accepted him as their own easily. He may have been smiling, but his eyes were razor sharp as he waited for the reply. So, it was time for Tairinn to come clean about some of her lies by omission.

“Knight-Lieutenant, dad.” She chuckled watching her father change in the face.

“No kidding?” He propped his sword against the fence and sat down beside it. “No, you wouldn’t. But how? We thought you’d stayed in Wycome this whole time! Though… I remember Fred wrote he had crossed paths with someone of ours in Ansburg, but nobody could ever think it’d be.. you?”

Tairinn stilled and breathed in slowly. _Of course you wouldn't._ “It's for the best, isn’t it? You lot don’t have to worry. Just don’t think I was hiding it from you, Max doesn’t know either. I told Ethan, but only because we needed his advise. Uncle Fred promised leave the names out, even though he’s quite unhappy with this.”

Raising his eyes to his daughter, Stephan patted the stone next to him and waited for her to sit down before going on with questions. “Do you regret going there?” It was quite unnerving to hear it again, especially since there was no real answer she could give.

On the one hand, she knew she had been doing something good in the eyes of society or at least the Chantry. On the other - after dozens of witnessed and organized Harrowings, several Rites of Tranquility that she had to perform herself, a decade of lyrium addiction and this damned Meredith and her Rite of Annulment that still haunted her sleep, regrets were a part of Tairinn’s life now. Only… It wasn’t for her, but for all those who suffered cruel and often unjust system. Maker’s breath, she was so tired of it.

However, it was useless to admit this to her father. The man had a different outlook on the life and for him the Chantry wasn't an octopus that slipped its tentacles into all spheres of peoples' lives throughout Thedas, but the only true answer to all the fundamental questions of the universe. Dan always said, _'sometimes you just have to stuff your opinion where sun don’t shine and nod politely'._ Now was the time to do so.

What was it if not some ultimate cosmic joke: the only person who understood and accepted her point of view was already neck deep in the archives of the Markham’s Chantry and University for more than ten years. Oh, what a pity it was, having no real opportunity to visit him at least for a day, Tairinn always had to choose: either Ethan, or the rest of the Trevelyans.

So she simply shook her head, neither agreeing nor denying. “It's pointless. Especially now, with only nine days left before the Conclave. Our faith must be strong.” The words felt like poison as she grinded her teeth not to say more. “Let’s drop it.”

For a while both were silent, watching fluffy clouds run across the sky peacefully, then the Templar shook herself, jumped down from the fence and, picking up the shield from the ground, went to the stables. “Shall we continue?” She asked, letting Hoka bump its muzzle into her shoulder.

“Who trains whom now…” the man replied with a grin, “All right, take off your metal and let's go!”

 

Leaving the metal parts of the armor under the roof, Tairinn strapped shield and sword to the saddle. Something seemed off. The woman looked herself over critically and sighed. No, the under armor would only interfere, so she wiggled out of it too. Now the Templar was dressed in simple pants, thin cotton shirt and her favorite leather boots, which was much more acceptable for what was to follow.

"Adrie is in the garden now. Books, you know how she is." Stefan said, walking up to the stables. "Maxwell will be with her until we finish. She won’t see, so spare your shirt at least.”

Tairinn exhaled in relief and stepped behind Hoka’s broad back to take her shirt off. She checked the bandage on her chest once more, fixing it securely, and made sure the straps on her boots won’t untie at the most inopportune moment. Prepared, the Templar turned and took a longsword that was only slightly inferior in size and weight to her father's from his hands. He smiled at her in approval, ignoring the scar showing from under the bandages, a bright thin line on her bronze skin that crossed Tairinn’s chest from right collarbone to navel.

Delight mixed with anxiety surged through her unexpectedly. Knowing full well what lied ahead, the woman balanced the weapon on her shoulder and returned to the training circle with Lord Trevelyan in tow.

 

Father and daughter, they stopped opposite each other. Left foot slightly bent forward, right hand firmly held the handle of the heavy sword so that a wide dark blade could slip sideways at any moment, ready to begin a deathly dance. The Voice, cornered to the back of consciousness by the meditation, howled, magnifying its endless song. The world lost its clarity, turning into a set of blurred silhouettes, leaving only one thing that had not changed its shape in a cacophony of colors. The father's sword. Stefan’s movements, precise and rhythmic, forced the zweihander to soar up and fall down like a huge butcher’s knife again and again.

Feeling, inexplicably but with absolute certainty, where the blade would strike after each turn, Tairinn slid away from the impact, not stopping her own dance for a second. The air seemed hot and she had difficulty getting it into the lungs, the wind whistled in her ears, but the muscles used to such loads during years of combat and training remembered what to do. The sword in the hands of the Templar obediently blocked those blows she considered weak enough, forcing the opponent's blade to pierce the ground without causing any harm. Allowing the momentum to propel her forward, Tairinn made sharp turns that gave enough power to her weapon for counterattack.

Stefan wasn’t the danger, she pleaded the Voice. But he could be, it countered and beckoned the gold even closer. Tairinn hated these moments, but she couldn’t even imagine her life without them. The woman still had no idea what was it, the Voice in her head, but now the only thing that really mattered was victory and together they would win.

It seemed like eternity, but could really be only a few minutes when a strange movement in her peripheral vision made the woman snap out of a frenzied oblivion. Her sword was just beginning to ascend and she had to exert twice as much effort to stop it from hitting the fence. The tip grazed the stone with a screech instead, striking a spark, but Tairinn didn’t care about it anymore: she was looking at the young recruit standing at the stables. Hoka trustingly poked his shoulder with her soft lips, waiting for a treat, the dark-haired boy, however, stood frozen in his place, stunned by the show of strength, and watched his mentor with wide-eyed fascination.

 

“Aidan?” Tairinn easily guessed what her disciple could do here at the estate, but she still hoped the boy just escaped to see how the Trevelyans live, not brought new orders.

“Ser… Ser Tairinn?” His voice was trembling. He obviously didn’t expect to see his always cool and concentrated mentor easily wielding a large two-handed sword, giving herself up to the battle frenzy. “Ser Tairinn, Captain’s orders!" he stuttered in the end. "The ship to Kirkwall will leave in seven hours!” Shaking off his shock, the boy finally noticed the horse towering above him, apparently already desperate enough to get the treat that she began to chew his shirt. He tried to pull it back. Hoka pulled too. The struggle went on with alternate success. 

The Templar turned to her father, who had already took both swords and placed them over on the racks for sharpening. “Thanks the Maker we’ve got to see you at least. When will you be leaving?” In front of a stranger Stefan’s face shifted to an aloof mask. It’s only in his eyes Tairinn could see how disappointed he was because of her early departure.

“Hour and a half. Gotta take care of this first.” She nodded at her disheveled state.

Humming in agreement, Stefan looked at the embarrassed boy. “I'll have them start serving a brunch. I hope your student joins us?”

“Of course." Tairinn threw a glance at him too, noticing how red he looked. "Thank you, father.”

“We will gather in the dining room in forty minutes. Don’t be late.” Knowing he had the last word, the man walked purposefully towards the estate while Tairinn turned to Aidan.

“Where’s your horse?” she asked him with a sigh, hoping he hadn't left it at the border of the estate, which was... quite far to tell the truth. 

“At… at… At the gates, Ser! I can w-wait for you here… Or just go b-back now! I don’t want to be a b-bother.” He spoke quickly, trying to fight his stutter.

“Quit that nonsense!” The warrior snatched her shirt from the stable wall and new pants from the saddlebag. “Please, prepare my armor for the journey while I fix myself up, since you're here. We won’t have time to waste later. You’ll be invited as soon as everything is ready.”

“I'll do it, Ser!” The boy nodded so sharply it seemed he would break his neck, bit Tairinn simply sighed again and shook her head. _Where does so much fervor comes from?_ His large, gray like thunderclouds eyes were glowing with desire to please.

After giving the boy the last instructions, she swiftly ran to the house where a basin with hot water was already waiting for her. Time was of the essence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Your feedback is really appreciated, it keeps me motivated:)


	4. Farewells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a heavy heart Tairinn bids her goodbyes to the family and leaves for Ostwick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, this one was a wild ride. I had to stop and rewrite most of it during translation process. Truth be told, I've spent at least two weeks of this unintended hiatus on reading blackkat's amazing Backslide, Stormborn and Reverse. Her writing gave me so much in regards of composition and general use of English! Anyway, here's the fourth chapter of TDH, I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Also you can find my Trevelyan trio portraits at the end of this chapter!

As soon as the sparring was interrupted by an uninvited guest, the estate came alive like a disturbed beehive.

The breakfast had been already served in the same as yesterday dining room while Tairinn was washing up and trying to bring her hair back to somewhat orderly shape in her own room. She was watching her reflection tiredly, a finger tracing the thin scarline dividing her brow, when Max’s voice echoed down the hall, and gave up with a long suffering sigh. The very idea of something resembling of a haircut was doomed to failure since she kind of ruined her hair a couple of days ago in that Maker forgotten tavern near Hercinia. With a low groan the woman fished a leather strip out of her bag again and, pulling dark unruly hair up, picked up her dirty clothes. Letting the door shut behind her back, Tairinn hurried to her family.

Aidan was waiting for her at the massive doors of dark wood  that were leading to the dining room where other Trevelyans had already gathered. His eyes darted from the portraits of her ancestors that lined the walls of the hall to the old pear yard. Spring’s graceful onset colored white weathered stone of the estate with soft greens of young vines and rose shrubs, filled damp from the closeness of the Keller river and Waking sea air with unreachable but ever present scent of renewal. It must be so unusual for the boy, Tairinn wondered, to finally escape the heavy hold of Chantry norms and watch how usual people, even if with some claims of nobility, interact. The Templar patted Aidan on the shoulder gently and beckoned him to follow her.

“Do not call me by the name in front of my mother, okay?” She whispered to his ear just before they entered the hall. “Watch the situation closely and pay attention to apple pie. It’s insanely delicious!” Not really waiting for a response she almost pushed the boy inside.

“Dear, it’s a pity they call you off early!” Adriana threw her hands up in the air dramatically as soon as they made an entrance, but didn’t try to get up from her seat. Apparently, the news of her son's imminent departure unsettled her greatly. “I asked Edna to get you some food for the road ahead. Three days by sea to Kirkwall, such a long distance!”

Tairinn let her mother’s wails slide by, too used to her emotional nature, and took her usual chair one seat from Adriana on the long side of the table. Her own place that always had been by her mother’s side stayed empty, constantly reminding her of the disguise she had to wear. Aidan, still wide eyed, took the seat next to her, smiling shyly to Brendon who immediately flashed him a toothy grin in return.

“It’s four, Lady Trevelyan,” he said in a quiet but steady voice, “the sea is rough in the spring and the Knight-Captain decided that we must depart earlier to be in Jader by the end of the week...”

“A sensible decision.” Stefan rubbed his moustache thoughtfully, as he set his utensils aside. “Will you go on duty immediately upon arrival?”

“Ah, the day before the Conclave begins," Tairinn confirmed, clearing her throat awkwardly, “Most Holy wished the mixed guards in the Temple, both Templars and non-Chantry military contingent. To prevent...” she chewed on the inside on her cheek for a moment, and added with a frown, “...skirmishes.”

Silence, heavy and uncomfortable, loomed in the room, interrupted only by soft grinding of knives on the plates. Even here, in the Marches, people could feel breath of war on their necks, especially since one of the most stable and well guarded Circles was disbanded, leaving Ostwick in whole and Trevelyans in particular in a precarious position. But Adriana, oblivious as she was in her family-induced ignorance, seemed to miss the change in the tone of the conversation completely.

“What about your companion, Ethan? Where are your manners, introduce us!” She shook her head disapprovingly and Tairinn lowered her eyes, hiding a scowl.

“My apologies. This is my apprentice, Aidan Vermille. Aidan, this is my parents, Lord Stefan Bann Trevelyan,” the man put his fork aside and nodded politely from his place at the head of the table, “and Lady Adriana Rhonne Alamilla.” The woman smiled happily at Aidan and took one more sip of herbal tea from small and almost transparent porcelain cup.

“Vermille? Sounds familiar...” Adriana touched the bridge of her long nose thoughtfully, her gaze firmly set on the young apprentice. “Aren’t you related to Mary by any chance, my boy?” She turned to Tairinn questioningly, “Ethan, dear, do you remember Mary? Married George Lannon, great-aunt Lucille’s son. They also have a daughter... Lisette, is she? The girl is a Templar too, I reckon.”

Tairinn felt her brows knit into a not so thin line. It was true, she could vaguely remember Lisette, although they had only met once, a couple of years ago and Tairinn hardly had any time to properly connect with the girl. She had been mourning Dan, nothing else mattered. And Mary Vermille? No, Tairinn had no memory of the woman, maybe there was something in family chronicles?

She nodded absently at the same moment as Aidan’s quiet voice broke stretching silence. “I am sorry, Lady Trevelyan, b-b-but I wouldn’t know. I have n-n-never had a chance to m-m-meet my p-p-parents since I have no kn-n-nowledge of them. Chantry cared for m-m-me since my birth.” His stormy grey eyes were forlorn and Tairinn put her hand on his shoulder instinctively, trying to give him at least a little bit of comfort. Mother truly never was even somewhat sensitive towards other people's’ feelings, was she? “It is a c-c-comfort though, to know there are m-m-more people by this name.” He breathed out slowly and lifted his gaze to Tairinn’s older brother, who, in contrast of their mother, could take a hint.

“Maxwell,” the man, who sat at the right of their father, introduced himself and winked at the stiff boy who stared at him with a crooked smile frozen on his lips He must have felt that all attention fell on him and, swallowing nervously, nodded faintly.

With Aidan’s mother dying shortly after his birth, as Tairinn had been said by the monastery cleric, he was brought up by the Chantry since childhood and had long been accustomed to the pretentious manners of its members, but Trevelyans, no matter how pious and traditional they were rumored to be, hadn’t behaved like pompous noblemen. They were nice to him and tried to connect and he, frankly, didn’t know how to act.

“I’m Brendon!” Tairinn’s brother, who sat opposite of Aidan, joyfully waived his fork at her apprentice. “So you’re a Templar too or just a recruit?”

“S-ser Ta…,” Aidan stopped abruptly, his hands balled into fists on his knees as the boy caught himself slipping, “Ser Trevelyan accepted m-m-me as his student a year ago.” His face lit up a he started to speak about his future, hands flailing in the air comically.. Watching the him from the corner of her eye, Tairinn snickered. “If I pass m-m-my Vigil and all exam-m-minations successfully, then in three years I will b-b-be initiated and b-b-become a Templar!”

Thirteen years old, he was burning with unquenchable enthusiasm to prove himself capable and gain a title, even though Tairinn had been trying really hard to discreetly discourage the boy from taking this path. Which meant lyrium eventually. Her smile turned grim.

She still remembered her urgent as it was initiation. It happened at about Aidan’s age when Hasmal Circle had been nearly destroyed by demons and all Templars from recruits in training to Knight-Commander that had been serving there fell from the hands of abominations. She passed her Vigil easily, accustomed to the steady flow of meditation from her childhood attempts to shut out the Voice, and gave vows to the Order because she longed to run away from the life her mother wished for her and to make her proud for Ethan at least. Aidan, on the other hand, was taught it’s his fate to serve, he just wanted to be useful and accepted. Could she find another, less destructive and dangerous way for him?

“Fascinating!” Bren, as usual, already had a hundred questions and clearly couldn’t decide which one to ask next. “Have you...”

“Aidan, what do you plan to do in the future?” Tairinn’s younger sister asked gently, her eyes sparkling with barely hidden amusement. “To serve at the monastery or in the Circle? My name is Erin, by the way.”

The boy blushed bright red and turned to watch his mentor with so much conviction she nearly choked on her food. “I hope to s-s-serve like Ser Trevelyan, where we are n-needed the most.” Stifling a groan, Tairinn immediately stepped on the his foot, making it clear he should be more careful with words, and tried to smooth somewhat the situation they were waltzing into.

“We don’t choose where we will be sent, sis. That’s what commanding officers are for,” she offered, winking at the young mage, who, at least, was smart enough to be silent about her hidden talents in the presence of the outsider.

“That's only reasonable,” Stefan intervened immediately, helping his daughter to resolve the tension.

Maxwell watched Taisinn suspiciously. Did she evade answering? Why? Could it be she hadn’t spent her previous years in the Wycome Circle? Something was clearly off. Since when were the Templars from the Circles to be sent to the middle of nowhere to guard such events as the Conclave? Only those assigned to monasteries were used for such events and if Tairinn really had been trained in Wycome… there was one in there, Monastery of Her Last Word...

Maxwell's dark skin turned gray: military contingent of Her Last Word was rumored to work all over Free Marches constantly for the past five years. Squads were even sent to Kirkwall after the explosion of the local Chantry to suppress the uprising and enforce the Right of Annulment. Demons take him, Tairinn’s been there!

Frowning, the older Trevelyan tried to remember where the Templars of Her Last Word could have been operating. The Hasmal breakout came to his mind immediately. No, it was too early, she couldn’t have given her vows in 9:29 and it was mostly peaceful time, so recruits could hardly have been sent to that shithole. Ansburg massacre in 9:39? That seemed much more possible.

Bren jerked as if he was stung and then Maxwell felt something press unkindly on his foot too. Stiffening, he watched closely those seated at the table and noticed that Tairinn was sitting a bit too casually in her chair, barely in it with her legs stretched below the table, and was sending him death glares. Catching his gaze, she shook her head and made a face at him hiding behind the napkin. Yeah, he guessed, you got it, don’t let others know.

Hoping that he could take the conversation to a safer direction, he turned to Tairinn’s apprentice again with a smile. “It's a long way down to Jader, Aidan. Have you ever sailed yet?”

The boy's gray eyes shone with excitement and he jumped in his seat enthusiastically. “N-not yet! But Ser Trevelyan…” he paused briefly, “told m-m-me about them! About the killer waves and seasickness t-too! And once we even saw q-q-qunari dreadnoughts!

“Ethan, darling, you have been to the sea?” Adriana's smile dropped, her expression twisting in an extreme surprise.

Tairinn cursed under her breath and squeezed a knife with a little more force than necessary, slightly bending it in the middle. “Mother, please!” With a sigh she closed her eyes, hiding frustration threatening to resurface any moment. “You’re not the only one in this family who reads and I’ve always lived by the sea, here and Wycome both. I can’t not know these things.”

Perhaps asking the Captain for extra leave wasn’t such an excellent idea. Tairinn loved Adriana in her own way, but every time she visited, it became increasingly difficult to maintain the legend she and brothers had built over the years. She could deal with pretending, but it was unsettling to live up to mother’s expectations and listen to her stories about herself. Especially those that didn’t have the slightest relation to reality.

“Ah, of course, you’re right, my boy!” The woman waved the conversation off as she sat her empty cup on the table and tapped it with a thin finger. “Enough talking, let's have some tea!”

As if on cue the servants started putting dirty dishes away only to change it for a delicate porcelain tea set instead. Edna, sweet old Edna, has solemnly put a large open apple pie on the table and ruffled Tairinn’s unruly hair on her way back to the kitchen, making the woman smile softly. Leave it to Edna to lift her dwindling spirit.

The rest of the meal went on in a pleasant atmosphere, filled with a meaningless conversation about early spring and pies. Some time later Tairinn watched the yard through the window, marveling at first pear blossoms appearing on the old tree that easily could be as old as her late grandmother. Then, two pieces of pie and one mint roll later, she gently  tapped Aidan’s shoulder to bring his attention to the window too. The sun, unusually bright and warm for the beginning of Drakonis, approached zenith and started to fall down already. It was time to go.

 

After giving their thanks, Templars immediately left for the stables, but at the kitchen’s threshold they were intercepted by an old housemaid, who handed them two large sacks of food accompanied by a conspiratorial wink.

“Eat well and share with your friends!” Edna watched them over, squinting, took an old but sturdy looking wineskin off the shelf and filled it with a cooled herbal tea, beckoning Tairinn’s disciple to come closer. He smiled at her shyly, still embarrassed a little by the warm welcome Trevelyans met him with and gratefully accepted the weight.

“Come see us off?” Tairinn’s amber eyes were hopeful, but she tried to hide her discontent behind her usual cheerful smile.

This girl had always tried to seem careless, to bury her sadness of being different, Edna thought unhappily. Maybe Adriana was a good wife to Stefan and relatively acceptable mother to boys and younger twins, but Tairinn… She was always wary of her mother and with years retreated more and more into herself, unable to comply with her authority and wishes. She’d clearly been her grandmother’s child more than any of her family ever did. The housemaid shook her head slightly and nudged the pair towards the doors. Sibyll had been a strong woman, her will unwavering, so why had she let it slide for so long? Why hadn’t she taught the girl herself? Was it, whatever ran in the family blood, worth of so much secrecy that it nearly ruined this once bubbly and happy child?

“Have I ever let you leave without any farewells? You know this, my heart is always aching for you, child.” Edna knew, her age had already taken its toll on her and she couldn’t be as fast as she had been twenty years ago and there was still so much to be done. With a smirk she shooed both Tairinn and the boy away again playfully. “Go, don’t waste time here, saddle up. I need to help Master walk Mistress Adriana to the gates.”

 

At the stables Tairinn quickly put her armor on, tightening all the straps, fastened the shield and one of the food bags to Hoka's saddle. The mare sensed new road ahead and was shifting from foot to foot, snorting softly. The woman petted her companion on the coal black mane and checked the girths one final time before leading Hoka out into the backyard.

Aidan, on the other hand, did not have any real armor yet, recruit as he was, so most of the time he sported in plain linen pants, leather boots and a jacket with a small pin - a sword set ablaze - attached on its collar as the symbol of his loyalty to the Templar Order. So he didn’t really need much time to get ready and by the time the woman and her mare reached the gates, he was long gone: the apprentice already ran back to wherever he had left his horse in the morning, as he still needed to prepare it for the journey.

Holding Hoka’s reins loosely, the Tairinn stopped at the gates of the estate. The whole Trevelyan family had already gathered there in different states of upset. Adriana tried to hide unshed tears behind a handkerchief and was leaning heavily on Stefan’s arm that was safely curled around her waist. She looked so fragile and ill in the late winter sunshine that Tairinn felt crippling unease. Her relationship with mother was a play worth Orlesian theatre, but in truth -  strained at the best, Still, something, a small Voice inside her head was waking from its slumber, the herald of upcoming trouble, so Templar didn’t want to part with Adriana on the sad note.

“Don’t be sad, Mother,” she said softly, “It’s just another mission. We will meet till the year’s end, I promise.I’ll find a way.”

“Oh, dear...” The tears spilled from her mother’s eyes, but she smiled in return, her face turning hopeful instead of nearly mourning, “I will wait. We all will.”

While years were not gentle to Adriana, Stefan aged gracefully: he almost hadn’t changed since Tairinn’s childhood, except that now she looked at him not from the below, but from her equal height. And maybe his hair were now turning gray, but his piercing understanding gaze and warm smile hidden in the thickness of his mustache were the same as sixteen years ago, when he had went to see her off to Wycome.

“Modest in temper, bold in deed,” he said, clasping her wrist in parting. “Find the one who will call you back from the edge.”

“I’ll try,” she whispered, feeling the lump forming in her throat. It didn’t feel like their usual goodbye, it felt… final.

But Tairinn’s siblings didn’t give her any time to reflect on father’s words, already fighting for her attention. The brothers and sister stood a little apart, but as soon as Stefan took a step back, ushering Adriana to give children space, Erin immediately rushed to Tairinn and hugged her with all her sixteen year old mage might. Which turned out to be really strong.

“Take care! And make sure everything goes well, okay?” Erin’s silver gray eyes sparkled wetly as she chanted, “Be careful, please be! Don’t let them ruin us, I know you can!”

Squeezing her little sister in return, Tairinn breathed out, loo low for others to hear, “Whatever it takes and more, Eri. I’ll try to find a way.” The next moment Brendon grabbed them both in a bear hug.

“You try to come back, okay, sister?”

“Are you writing me off?” She joked, but he just held on tighter. “Promise,” she said hoarsely, and the younger ones immediately parted, giving way to Maxwell. He only held out his hand, but a strong handshake spoke louder than any words. They knew each other too well it the end, there was no need to say something. And still...

“Boring!” Tairinn laughed and pulled him closer to leave one last instruction. "Look after Mother, okay? And don’t let dad overdo it or you’ll become Head of the House much earlier than a proud parent. Helga would be devastated.” With a smirk she flicked him on the nose and dodged his retaliatory attack with a practiced ease. “I'll write when it's over.” Maxwell simply nodded, unable to hide an exasperated smile as she ruffled his hair.

Tairinn couldn’t stall this moment any longer. She bowed to her parents, checked her saddlebags for the last time and leaped right into the saddle. Aidan's piebald horse neighed impatiently on her right already, as if in a hurry to get back on the road.

“May the Maker watch over you wherever you go," traditional farewell left Adriana’s lips. No one, even Stefan was concealing tears any longer. Back on the porch Edna held her hand up in a goodbye and somehow, it felt like a final parting. Briefly nodding, the Templar touched Hoka's sides with stirrups and the mare quickly broke into a gallop. Neither Tairinn nor her apprentice glanced around until the estate was hidden behind a bend, lost in new, but already thick undergrowth.

Only then, when Aidan finally caught up with his mentor, he allowed himself to ask a question that undoubtedly worried him from the very arrival to the estate. “Ser, why have you been pretending to be a man?" Sighing, Tairinn let Hoka slow down to the trot, and then to the step. If years in the field had taught her something, not shouting personal information for everybody to hear while racing through sparsely populated regions was one of the tricks. She stared defiantly into the distance as the words came to her mind.

“Perhaps you noticed that my mother is... not well.” The boy tilted his head in agreement, but otherwise stayed silent, knowing that she could easily catch his movement with her peripheral vision, “The disease is incurable, but the sick can live a long life if it avoids stress and shocks. If no one upsets her, to be precise.” Tairinn’s lips curled upwards for a moment, showing her teeth. “In the interest of her safety, we told her that my older brother, not Maxwell, but Ethan serves as a Templar, and I went away to become a Sister in the Markham Chantry.”

Her words were careful, exact, as if she had been rehearsing them for a long time. And maybe she had, who knows? While Aidan was close to worshipping his mentor most of the time, he too could not deny that Tairinn had some… troubles she preferred to leave festering instead of dealing with. However, he knew she wasn’t the only one this way too after a year on the road with Knight-Captain Evelyn’s squad. Ser Tairinn’s squad too. Still, he couldn’t stop from asking.

“B-b-but, Ser, why such d-d-difficulties?”

“Mother… She would never let me go to the Order, kid, and my brother wasn’t the best Templar material either. When someone who you think of as family has a dream, you will do anything to make it come true, anyway.” Shifting slightly in the saddle, Tairinn leaned over the distance between her and the boy and patted his messy hair.

“So your brother dreamed of becoming a Brother?’ Aidan perked up immediately at the opportunity to know more about the man his mentor loved so much, she took his place and bore his name.

“Yeah, like Genitivi.” Trevelyan finally turned to him with a soft, wistful smile. “Ever heard of him?”

“Of course, Ser! His writing were deemed controversial and some scrolls even forbidden!” Excitement almost bubbled around the boy at the mention of the apparently controversial topic. He even stopped stuttering for once. “I’ve tried to read his geographic notes, but some of them are so hard! Anyway,” Aidan shook his head to get back to the core of their discussion, “is Master Ethan a scientist?”

“Well, that’s one way to name him for sure, but first of all,” the woman grinned, “he's a Brother. And he loves what he does, which is the most important thing. That's why I'm here.” Of course, everything was somewhat more complicated, but she really didn’t want to explain the system of inheritance in noble Houses or how the life of every Trevelyan child had been  planned for years ahead from the very birth with exception of magic manifestation. No, Aidan really didn’t need to know all this stuff.

“Ser, you... You're amazing! When I grow up, I will become like you!” the boy announced grandly and Tairinn froze for a second, not knowing what to say. In the end, there had been too much things she’d done that she won’t ever be proud of or even come to accept.

“Don’t.” Tairinn choked out. “Don’t become like me, I mean,” she righted herself quickly with a sad chuckle. Not giving her apprentice a chance to argue, the woman added softly, “Become someone better, Aidan.”

The conversation came to a close after that. Giving in to her musings, Tairinn spurred the horse and Hoka rushed up the road again, piercing the fresh spring air like a black arrow. For a while they rode in silence, each was absorbed in his thoughts, but as the city outskirts came into view Trevelyan felt the powers leave her.

Murky blue-green mist filled her vision as she broke a cold sweat and the reins slipped from her numb fingers. Hoka, sensing her rider’s control slip away, slowed down to a step. Tairinn felt her body shake, shivers running up and down her spine and she knew that things would get worse soon. However, she had no idea how much worse. Breath coming out in hives, Trevelyan unclenched her teeth with a low groan and ordered Aidan to move forward and wait for her at the meeting point.

The boy, however, saw his mentor’s rapidly deteriorating condition and tried to argue. “But what about you, S-ser? Captain won’t b-b-be happy if I get b-b-back alone. Should I call for help?”

“No,” the woman nearly spit out, trying to make the air to fill her lungs. It was so damn hard! “Tell her I’ll be an hour after you. Go, NOW!” The Templar could hardly restrain herself from screaming at the boy, and he must have finally understood that arguing was useless at this point. Spurring his horse, he galloped to the city.

She waited until he was out of sight, and slid down the horse's side with a pained moan only to stagger toward a small glade that grew along the road. At the nearest tree Trevelyan fell to the ground exhausted and worn out. Hoka followed her rider obediently, silent and quick as a shadow. As soon as the woman finally settled, a coal black muzzle immediately bumped into her shoulder.

Embracing the horse bending over her, Tairinn tried to concentrate: there was a long sea voyage ahead and two daytime marches to the Temple of Sacred Ashes through an unfamiliar terrain. Losing vigilance could lead to death, her own, or even worse, her squadmates. How tempting was the thought of luring the horse closer, pulling a small wooden box out from the bag and allowing the blue powder intoxicate her again. So, so impossibly alluring!

But something, a premonition that had appeared from nowhere almost a month ago  and now was filling her dreams with incomprehensible whispers forced Tairinn to abandon the easy way. Lyrium was only a crutch helping to dispel hostile magic, but it didn’t mean that without it Tairinn would lose her abilities. She won’t, destroying magic would just be more difficult. She can live with that. She can survive it.

"More faith, less drugs," the old Captain once told Tairinn, empty eyes burning holes in the Monastery wall. He disappeared a few days later, and no one seemed to care. At first, the phrase seemed stupid to her; some years after her initiation, barely sixteen and frightened of what had been happening to her, Trevelyan held at this phrase like a straw, trying fight an overwhelming feeling of omnipotence that clawed at her veins. Now, almost fourteen years later, she understood: the truth is somewhere in the middle.

Neither fanatical faith nor lyrium were the key to success and, more importantly, to survival. Only willpower could pull a Templar out of a hidden but so tempting trap, arranged for her by Chantry. Willpower and ability to turn away, find a distraction, go on even when oblivion seemed to be an easy choice and cold indifference made her lose the track of time.

Tairinn almost gave up lyrium once, but... now she had been left to suffer alone and a cunning and feisty redhead archer with a smile of a saint was no longer with her. And never will be. Cocky but loyal Knight-Corporal who had joined her squad in 9:37, days before Kirkwall events - _I have a soul of a bard, my dear! Do you want me to sing for you?_ \- wouldn’t save her from withdrawal, dragging into some cheap vacant room of the shitty tavern on the way to their new appointment. Five and a half weeks ago, on Wintermarch 25th, it was exactly two years since Dan left Tairinn's bed and life forever. But he never left her heart even if she won’t acknowledge it to anyone. She remembered that day as if it had happened only yesterday.

 

Blizzard had been raging in Free Marches for weeks, threatening to kill winter crops, break fruit trees and leave the country to starve when the Templars from Her Last Word were sent to Tantervale. They were slowly wading through thick snow covering all roads along Minanter river for days, listening to the howling wind and Silas and Yanta’s chanting. The squad had been ordered to meet up with another team sent by the Monastery, but the routine mission turned into a nightmare when, a day on foot from Ansburg, Tairinn’s unit got into trouble. Ironically, the man who had managed to survive between a rock of Chantry demands and a hard place of the bard's way for so long, died, trying to break a stupid drunken brawl.

Tairinn had lost a part of herself that day, while the report she had to sign indicated a casualty, not even in the line of duty. No body identification, no name, no memory. The Order had always been quick to sweep its fallen members under the rug and the only ones who remembered now were Trevelyan’s squadmates. Were they? Still, Tairinn had been grateful to her Captain, who made it an order to build a pyre for their fallen partner at least. And now, a fake name and a few dozen songs, the meaning of which could only be understood by the ones who took this winding road of lyrium haze and bloodied hands - that was all that's left of Dan the Red Fox.

The years of hiding from the Voice behind the meditation and pretending to be someone else made it easier for Tairinn to cover pain and emptiness that engulfed her with a quick smile that hadn’t reached her eyes. The Templar broke, but no one could see it even when she took a dusty wooden box from her first-aid kit and let blue shining liquid seep into her blood. It took her more nearly two years to find resolve to start again.

 

Tairinn rubbed her left wrist absently in a vain attempt to soothe the scar that started itching again. Slowly, as if her mind was floating in a pool of demonic goo, she realized that the tremors begun to lessen and her fingers once again obeyed her. Without a doubt, the woman was lucky this time, as an episode hadn’t caught her with a knife in her hand like three days ago, when she had cut herself by accident while trying to get rid of the braid. The result of the unsuccessful haircut became a long shallow wound on her left wrist and unevenly chopped hair, that seemed to close the view at the most inopportune moment.

Even if the Voice was still a complete mystery to Tairinn as she did her best to shut it down, following her Father’s rare lessons, she had figured it out long ago that her wounds took a little less time than average to heal because of its interference. Not that it mattered now though. As soon as lyrium withdrawal came back, torturing her with agonizing pain, Tairinn’s healing rate slowed down, apparently, redirected to block the symptoms rather than heal minor scratches. Anyway, for now she had only two options: to drink a healing potion and listen to Darius’ whines at her profligacy for hours at best, or let it heal at its own rate, and after all those years in close proximity to Darius… Well, no one could blame her for her choices, really.

Tairinn was still shaking, but it became easier to breathe and the sounds of the surrounding world began to filter in again. Somewhere on her left crows croaked nervously, disturbed by the horse and its rider, thin trees creaked sharply in the still cold winter wind. The world smelled of damp earth, pine needles and herse dung, apparently, she stopped closer to the  outer city’s farms than it seemed.

Tairinn closed her eyes, counting the days. Judging by the evidence that Ethan had excavated in the archives of the University of Markham, episodes had to become less frequent, but significantly add to the force after the tenth week. Maker knows, she didn’t even want to imagine what it might turn out to be. When blue-green spots finally stopped floating in front of her blurry vision, Tairinn decided she could try to mount her horse again without saying goodbye to the breakfast. Life, no matter how grim its prospects seemed to be, went on.


	5. Sleepless in the Waking Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no time as good as this to enjoy some friendly shenanigans. Meet the squad!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My plan for now is weekly updates, yeah. But I sprained my leg and while those tendons are swollen as heck, I'm sitting here at home and using some free time to translate next chapters. The thing is... once they're done, how can I not post it? 
> 
> So, jump up aboard, let's sail the Waking Sea together!

Tairinn got up from cold earth under an old aspen tree with a groan and held on Hoka’s neck for balance. The horse seemed to feel her discomfort and stood unmoving, letting her rider comb through her thick black mane with gloved fingers. It was comforting in a way, something steady in Tairinn’s hectic and unpredictable life. She waited out another couple of minutes and mounted carefully, taking a great caution in order not to slip.

The thought of taking a shorter route came to mind and she resolutely directed Hoka to the bypass road, hoping to save some time by cutting through the West Gate. Sunday in Ostwick had always meant one thing - market day, so a trip through the city center could take a long time.

After half an hour of light trot along the farms clambering up the outer city wall, Templar felt quite confident in her health and gently spurred her horse. Hoka felt the command before it was even made though and a moment later she was galloping towards the sea barely visible ahead, coming to a halt only at the West Gate from where it was a stone's throw to the docks.

Guards standing at the city entrance watched her sleepily, losing any interest they might have had in her as soon as the emblem of the Order shone crimson on her breastplate. Nodding politely, Tairinn entered the city, trying to remember the shortest route to the sea. Back when she had been a child, father often took her and brothers to Ostwick, showing them the streets and telling the stories about one of the most stable policies of the Free Marches, but many years have passed since then and Tairinn’s memory helpfully provided her with sentimental memories instead of directions and landmarks.

 

She must have circled the Craftsmen's Square in the wide arc three times at least when she saw a man in the similar armor pass her by. Judging by the weary look that seemed to be tattooed on his face, the Templar had just taken a day off. When she got closer, Tairinn saluted him briefly and was about to introduce herself when he sized her up with a weary eyes and asked somewhat nervously, “Aren’t you heading to the Conclave, Ser?”

She raised her scarred brow in surprise, but nodded curtly. “Exactly. Trevelyan from Her Last Word. Wouldn’t you mind showing me to the docks?” The man inclined his head agreeably and offered to take the reins. It wasn’t really needed as Hoka had been long used to human cities and strode proudly through human sea as if they were ghosts. That mare had a personality of her own for sure. However, the Templar seemed to be unused to such opinionated horses and Tairinn handed the reins over to calm him a bit. Knight-Corporal, if judged by the marks on his armor, finally introduced himself as Corporal Mathieu and hastily explained how had he knew she was heading to Ferelden.  
  
“Your squad came through in the morning to replenish their… stocks, were in a hurry. The Captain warned that her Lieutenant would pass by later, said she sent the apprentice after her. After you, Ser, isn’t it?” His voice was low and thick with Nevarran accent but carried far. A trio of women, tourists from Rivain by the looks of their richly decorated with golden thread dresses and ebony skin, shook their heads in disapproval at the sight of the Templars and stepped away from their path murmuring something about divine retribution.  
  
“Yeah, that’d be me.” Tairinn shrugged, trying to warm up a bit as her gaze followed the seers that glowed brightly in her inner vision. Ostwick, dual walled as it was, still had been built close enough to the sea to always be chilly. “The boy came by?”

“Of course he did,” her companion hid the grin in a thin mustache, “Must’ve been in a hurry, looked like the wolves were chasing him, Maker forbid. Your squad has already gone to the docks by then, so we sent him there too.”  
  
He fell silent, pondering something and for several minutes they maneuvered in the crowd without saying a word. Then the man smoothed out his short brown hair and inquired cautiously, “And you, Ser... Don’t you need... stocks?”

 _What a strange guy,_ Tairinn thought absently, _called the lyrium “stocks”. A shortage? Again? Dwarves could, of course, delay deliveries and it happens from time to time... Is he worried we won’t leave enough for his unit?_ Preserving a neutral expression, Lieutenant shook her head, “I have no need for it.”   
  
“Do you mean… at all?” Mathieu sputtered, his green eyes threatening to fall out of the sockets. “Ser?”

Cursing silently, Tairinn rolled her eyes and corrected herself, “For now only. I'll be in Orlais in a week and ...lend some from locals.” The man turned away from her, but she could see the way his shoulders slumped in relief.

 

In fact, there was a blue crystal in her bag, untouched since the First Day of 9:41. Chantry had been controlling lyrium for ages, trying to distribute the same size crystals in order to have less problems with accounting. One piece the size of a pinky finger was enough for at least five takes.

Every Templar had different needs, if someone would call an almost incurable dependence that, and these needs manifested in different ways. Some took the powdered and heated till liquefied lyrium every five days, some could hold out for ten before withdrawal kicked in. Tairinn had always been able to hold out for about a week without a new dose without consequences, but for the last almost nine she had not touched the box at all.

When she had been given a new crystal on the way here in Hercinia, Trevelyan could barely contain her desire to throw it into the nearest ditch. She went to the slums then, where in a sick excuse for an infirmary Templars who had been forgotten by the Chantry lived out their days. She had felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on ends at the sight of men and women, some barely twenty, looking absolutely ill and outright crazy. Tairinn ran from that place, leaving a glowing blue stone behind in the hands of one of the Sisters. Those people clearly needed lyrium much more than she did. She knew that her pain could still be stopped if only her willpower would suffice, and for them there was nothing that could be done.

 

The last crystal was safely tucked in her first-aid kit, hidden in a wooden box that held all necessary tools and it was a constant temptation. Tairinn knew that she probably would need to use it before the Conclave, given how many mages would be present there, but the sense of self-preservation made her want to get rid of it. _Fight! Don’t let them control you again!_ she thought, and every time it sounded a little more desperate. But now there was also something else, a small voice at the back of her mind - not the Voice though - had been nudging at her consciousness for days already, assuring Tairinn she would not return to Free Marches any time soon. Surrendering to a momentary impulse, she shifted her gaze to Mathieu. “Deliveries are late again?” she asked him decisively.

The man's shoulders tensed under the light armor he was wearing, only further fueling her suspicions. “The last batch was smaller than expected. There are rumors that something… spoils stocks,” he answered nervously as his eyes darted around to ensure no one was trying to spy on them. Mathieu completely failed at hiding his growing unease and looked up at her with a sigh, “We are attempting lengthening the periods of distribution, but many cannot endure for too long.”

Tairinn simply nodded and press further. Her own first experiments with the timing were so frightening that she had finally found courage to completely abandon the lyrium only together with Dan.

Narrow streets gave way to the wide low buildings of the port and all of sudden docks appeared before them. The ships, still as big and beautiful as Tairinn remembered them from her last visit here, were nothing like tiny fishing boats of Wycome or rugged pirate ships of Estwatch. The ships of Ostwick were regal, always trying to pierce the sky with their tall masts as they rocked on the gray waves of the Waking Sea. It smelled like salt and rotten fish, not something Trevelyan, too used to life on the road, could appreciate.

The woman dismounted and, giving in to a whim, took out a first-aid kit from her bag. She opened a leather case with flasks and beckoned the corporal closer, her hand still shuffling in hidden in order not to attract the attention box. Mathieu cautiously approached Tairinn and she put a thin blue crystal in his hand, immediately pulling back her own before lyrium burned her skin. The man squeezed his fingers, feeling familiar contours, and looked up at her in surprise.

"-this?..."

“I hope you’ll be thoughtful, both using it and if someone asks where you got it from.” She nodded briefly to Mathieu and turned away to enter the docks.

“Lieutenant...” he crowed, “thank you.”  
  
“What we are living for if not to care for others?” Tairinn cited quietly, her amber eyes fixed on some place far away in the sea. “But who will care for us to help us not to fall?” _At least some Canticles in this damned Chant make sense_ , she thought ruefully, _or maybe I’m just turning into Silas._ She heard steps behind, notifying her of Corporal’s leave and exhaled heavily. There was no going back now.

 

Polished by time and hundreds of feet wooden planks creaked beneath her feet when Tairinn went towards ships, dragging unhappy-and-not-afraid-to-show-it mare with her. Hoka had never been a fan of sailing trips, but Trevelyan preferred to ignore her partner’s opinion on this topic. They needed to cross the sea and a couple of month long detour through Nevarra, most part of Orlais and a fair share of Ferelden wasn’t in Tairinn’s plans for sure.

She inspected the ships. The choice wasn’t that great: there were seven ships anchored in the Ostwick docks, but only two of them were filled with sailors’ figures hurrying back and forth hastily, and only one of them had a thirteen-year-old boy camping near the plank with a piebald horse in tow. With a small smile she went towards the boy who had been seemingly unable to force his horse to board the ship or even simply step on the plank thrown over the gray waters. Aidan still had a lot to learn. Tairinn smirked, taking her time to inspect the ship, and only then headed towards the frigate with a strange name 'Vala'.

Her language knowledge, as unimpressive as it was, returned nothing so the woman came to the conclusion that the word was either in Elven or Tevene. The question was, why there was a ship with such name in Free Marches? Knowing that the ways of the Maker were rarely predictable, but also inexplicable without the use of hallucinogens most of the times, she shrugged and stopped by her apprentice. The boy stopped the unequal battle with the stubbornness of his horse when he heard her footsteps and now joyfully stared at his mentor.

“So... You're planning to stay here till yer old age?” Tairinn winked at him, taking two long narrow strips of cheap linen from her saddlebag. Usually she used them instead of footcloths, but now the fabric came in handy in quite unexpected Aidan way. She handed one to her apprentice, “Tie up your horse's eyes and lead it aboard.”

The boy flashed her an exuberant smile and rushed to his mount with such ardor that the horse started neighing loudly, but Trevelyan simply shook her head, resigned. _This boy will be the death of me one day,_ she thought, _either from embarrassment or from the lack of control._

“Nothing compares to the sweet sound of your voice, Lieutenant! Your life lessons make my heart sing!” came from the deck and Tairinn rolled her eyes with a snort.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Darius,” she sing-songed at the invisible man. After she finally jumped aboard just a few seconds after Aidan, she made sure Hoka wouldn’t slip on the wet wood and lifted the bandage from horse’s eyes. A grim man in his fifties, whom due to his height, stockiness and a copper-brown thick beard many suspected in having at least a quarter of a dwarven blood, took the reins from her.

“Thank you, Silas.” Tairinn touched his shoulder once and finally turned her attention to the stately, undeniably attractive Antivan who had been staring at her saddlebags with his big brown eyes full of hope. “Aww, you missed me?” she taunted. The Templar knew for sure that it was impossible. Not Darius. Said brown eyes narrowed, making a striking resemblance between their owner and the bird of prey even more uncanny.

“I’ve been counting seconds to your arrival, oh my golden-eyed Tairinn!” he bemoaned, hugging himself and spinning in a mock dance.

“Is he high on his herbs again?” she asked out loud rhetorically. A long and elaborate string of profanities from one of the sailors who had been swinging somewhere up in the sails was the only answer she got. It could easily be counted as both yes, no or… Well, she didn’t plan to take man’s words for their face value for her own mental safety.

Trevelyan sighed heavily, knowing she wouldn’t get a normal answer from Darius any time soon, and looked around in search of someone who could explain a strange behavior of the alchemist. The man was devastatingly bad with his dual blades, but shockingly good with salves and poultices and sometimes Tairinn thought it was the only reason Captain still kept him in the squad. A _lways carried away too easily by alternative medicine_ , she groaned inwardly, _very original medicine_.

 

Large and smelling strongly of magic salt containers near the foremast had been occupied by a tall, almost close to Tairinn in height bald headed woman with a longsword made of dark indigo everite. Her feet were swinging in the air carelessly as she enjoyed alchemist’s performance, chuckling mirthfully every time he nearly slipped on the wet deck. Lita had been one of the most steady and loyal members of the squad for more than eleven years and was the only one except for Trevelyan who still had a living family.

Tairinn heard once that she came from a small mining village near Kirkwall and, truth be told, it had been showing as Lita jumped down her perch and easily moved a stack of salt filled crates all by herself without breaking a sweat. With golden skin covered with brown freckles, stubborn wide chin and sharp cheekbones softened by radiant blue eyes, she had never been what some would call a conventional beauty, but still Lita carried herself nobly and people tended to be attracted by her confidence. Tairinn waved at her but didn't ask for any explanation because it was useless to hope for any from her. Lita and Darius had that type of relationship where the only way of communication were sarcastic comments on his side and punches on hers. It had been this way from the very day the two had met and Tairinn had a feeling this rivalry could transcend even death.

Silas, somewhat-dwarven-and-proud, was taking care of the horses as usual. The animals adored him, letting him scrub their manes with barely hidden pleasure, Aidan’s horse even tried to lay down on the deck to give the man access to its spine, but Silas just clicked his tongue at it disapprovingly, effectively stopping the animal in its tracks. The man had never been the one to waste time on such nonsense as talking, preferring the company of horses, messenger crows or Ianthe, who was now dipping new arrowheads into the poison with an absent smile.

She must have felt Tairinn’s gaze and looked up from her pastime, meting Trevelyan with a blood-red eyes, first blinking with the left, then with the right one. Obviously, Ianthe hadn’t found anything worthy of her time and when Tairinn inclined her head in greeting albino turned away, aiming her undivided attention to her weapons. Woman’s white, nearly translucent braid swung dangerously mere inches above the poison jar, but she ignored it in favor of putting a new batch of arrows into her simple leather quiver.

 

Captain Evelyn was still absent, probably, negotiating the cost of their journey with the captain of Vala. Usually it had been Tairinn’s responsibility, but Captain clearly hadn’t trusted anyone else with it in her absence. _Traitors,_ Trevelyan thought dryly, knowing there’d be no help, and turned back to still dancing Antivan when Ianthe's voice colorless as her skin tore through the sounds of the docks. “Within their hearts grew / An intolerable hunger,” she offered dully. _Fantastic._

Raising an eyebrow, Trevelyan mulled over the words of the Chanter, trying to find a clue that the archer was obviously giving her in the quote from the Canticle of Threnodites. _Hunger, huh?_ She snickered softly. “Oh, you loudmouth,” she shook a finger at Darius with a laugh, “Are you giving my bags heart eyes?”

“Don’t you tell me you haven’t brought those wonderful pies, love of mine!” Bronze skinned man pressed his hands to his armored chest in a gesture full of drama. “You wound me!”

Their bickering was interrupted by Aidan, who appeared from the lower deck through a hatch.

“Ser, shall I unload the saddlebags or just unsaddle Hoka?” The boy raised his hand cautiously, looking questioningly at laughing Lita and Darius, who’d been trying to sneak back to Ianthe. The albino was checking the sharpness of her arrows thoughtfully and her expression was promising nothing good in the near future, but the alchemist couldn’t see it. “And what are you all doing here? Arguing again?”

Tairinn ignored the question in favor of slowly but unavoidably following Darius with a short dagger, which she usually hid in the sheath of her right boot. Her lips were curled in a playful smile but the eyes… Whatever Antivan saw there, it made him squirm even more.

“We’re not...” he gulped audibly when his back collided with a mainmast, leaving the man with nowhere to run, “...not arguing. It’s just… We both have a taste for a great food but the Lieutenant does not want to share!” he finished with a nervous giggle.

“Share what?” A blond curvy woman of about forty with a sword on her hip emerged unhurriedly from the captain's cabin, followed by a...   _Dwarf? On the ship?_ Returning the dagger back into its sheath in one swift motion, Tairinn shook Evelyn's hand first and turned to the alleged captain of Vala. The confrontation with Darius had been dropped till another time. For now.

“Pies, Ser. When did I come from home without ‘em?” woman answered in mock offence and offered her hand to the dwarf. “Trevelyan. Nice lady you have there.”

He nodded, visibly appeased and introduced himself briefly as Cadash before running off shouting something about jerks and topsails. Women exchanged exasperated glances and gave the squad a once over.

“No pies? Leave these horror stories for another time! Ianthe!” Captain bellowed suddenly in a booming voice that was a much better fit to Tairinn’s father than to a short but feisty Evelyn, “First you cover these with poison and then pulling it into your mouth?” Albino blinked, this time with both eyes, and slowly put the arrow she had almost bit away. Still, there was no guilt on her face but only barely hidden indignation. “Are you all small children here?” Evelyn groaned as the sound of a facepalm echoed in the sails. “Can’t I take my eyes from you for a minute?”

 _Darius, apparently, lost every bit of his survival instinct while I was away,_ Tairinn thought as the man went on digging a grave for himself. “What's going to happen to her,” he shrugged, “she's immune.”

“If she’s immune to something, that’ll be your poultices,” Tairinn cut off, taking a jag of poison from the archer and sniffling at a familiar smell.

“Hey, same herbs!” Antivan made an offended noise and tried to snatch the container away, only to get his hands slapped by Silas.

“Do I,” Silas spoke for the first time, his tone threatening, “get it right? You’re what, gonna heal our enemies with this stuff? Or you’ve been slipping us poison for years to boot?"

“Ugh, embrium.” Tairinn made a grimace of disgust and closed her nose with a free hand. “But it’s disgusting, what you’ve been doing to it? Wait!” She swore loudly, “Idiot, you’ve been boiling it!”

“Of course!” slapping her on the shoulder, Darius gently pulled the jar from his superior’s hands and covered it with a clay lid. “I've kept it on the fire for three hours, dear Lieutenant. This pot,” he caressed the jar lovingly, “can kill a small army, just one shot per person…” Too engrossed in his explanations, the man missed the horrified looks his companions gave him completely. “But I don’t recommend smelling it though, fumes seem to be hallucinogenic. I guess…”

“Fucking moron,” Tairinn felt chills go down her spine as she backed off from the jar as if it was… Well, it _was_ poisoned. “Why can’t you just use elfroot like any sane person would? Man, I’m so fucking tired of your experiments…” More angry than unsettled, she hissed, “I'll write to Ethan, Darius. I’ll ask him if there’s any sense in this one and Andraste help you if he tells me you’ve made a mistake…” The  heavy silence lingered as she stared Antivan down mercilessly. “And what got into you to make you believe Ianthe is immune to _this_?”

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written,” the archer lisped brightly, chewing on the newly made arrow still dripping with poison. The squad groaned in perfect tune, accompanied by muttered swearing while Evelyn took a deep breath to lecture unruly Chanter.

“Ianthe, dear! Maker protects you, we know this! But when will you get it, you’re not immortal! If Darius asks you to try something, by everything holy, at least warn someone!”

Though her crimson eyes were flashing skeptically, the archer nodded. She had never been able to understand how her squad mates could undermine her faith in Maker’s plan. Ianthe was sure, as long as He needed her, He would not let her die. Surprising as it was, strange and miraculous things, often even deadly for anybody but Ianthe, happened to her on a daily basis, but the archer didn’t pay attention to them. It was simply her way of life.

Poisons did no harm to her, axes made of steel broke on her leather armor and even demons shied away from the Chanter. She hadn’t got as much as a scratch the day she ran into a burning house in Starkhaven alienage to save a three-year-old elven boy who had been nearly crushed by a fallen beam. Even Tairinn, one of the dwindling in numbers skeptics when it came towards such events, couldn’t help but admit that something truly was out there to keep Ianthe from harm, especially after seeing this mystic shit with her own eyes.

“Mssirs Temp-plrs!” definitely drunken voice of one of the sailors interrupted a scandal in which Darius would have been ripped a new one for sure, “we’re, uhh, ready to leave.”  
  
“That's wonderful,” dark-skinned northerner danced away to the bow of the ship, skillfully dodging Lita's punch. “It’ll get dark by the time we’re out in the open sea and then…” he closed his eyes dreamily and purred under his breath, “pies, pies, my lovely pi-i-ies!”

“You’re getting crusts, mark my words!” Captain muttered decisively. “That’s what you deserve for your misbehavior, you giant Antivan toddler!” She shook her fist at Darius and turned to Tairinn. “I’ve had enough, Rin, from now on he's in your care. Whatever he does is on you, but you’re the one to choose punishment. Don’t go easy on the moron.” Evelyn patted fellow warrior on the elbow and chuckled when Tairinn grinned savagely.

“You’re so in for it, idiot!” she screamed to the alchemist and laughed out loud as he jumped, startled.

“And they cried out in fear, and fled back to their own lands.” Smiling wickedly, Ianthe jumped off her perch and went to the lower deck. She wasn’t particularly fond of the sea, preferring to stay away from the open waters. Tairinn shared the sentiment: the rocking of the ship sometimes made her nauseous, but whereas the archer tried to sleep it off, Trevelyan chose to stay and enjoy the view.

 

With a rattling noise a heavy anchor rose from gray water and cold southern wind filled weathered pale sails, pushing the ship into the open sea. Far away in the east a storm raged, bringing stray droplets of rain and fresh smell of ozone to Ostwick. Strong currents immediately grasped the ship, dragging it away towards the places unknown.

Standing at the stern, Tairinn bid her goodbye to the city fading in the distance and threw her head back to watch as rays of sunshine tried to cut through thick fog. For some reason, she was sure she wouldn’t return anytime soon.

 

_Drakonis 5th, 9:41 Dragon Age_

_Monday_

The night passed peacefully. Trevelyan spent most of it on the deck, looking at the dark silhouettes in the distance, thinking it was the shore of Free Marches. However, when she asked a badly scarred first mate standing at the helm why the ship had kept going so close to the shore, he looked at her strangely. “There’s only water for many miles all around, maam. Maybe you should sleep some, not hang around like a ghost? You’re seeing things,” he muttered and shooed her away.

Shrugging, Tairinn went downstairs and tried to fall asleep, huddling between Lita and Silas on the hard floor with her head on Lita’s rolled-up gambeson. Surprisingly, only half an hour later she was already fast asleep and dreaming of Dan. He looked at her with his bitch black eyes and smiled. Then, his cold hands reached out for her, still dripping dark thick blood. “You’ve managed. You ran,” he whispered, caressing her cheek, and faded into the night.

She woke up covered with cold sweat, hardly remembering where she was and trying to wipe the wetness from her face. Sitting down, Tairinn realized she was still on Vala and there were undried tears on her fingers now, not Dan’s blood. Most of her comrades were still sleeping peacefully.

“Yer awake?” Evelyn's voice was hoarse and her green eyes still clouded, drowsy. She sat up, leaning her back on the bulkhead, and crossed middle and index fingers in an obscene gesture. “Maa, I hate sea. Damp, cold. Disgusting.”

“Don’t you tell me it smells like fish.” Lieutenant twisted her lips into a empty smile and rubbed her sore throat. “Shouldn’t there be a barrel with a fresh water somewhere? I’m freaking thirsty.”

“On the main deck.” Captain  stood, stretching languidly, and wiggled her thick brows, “Wanna spar?” _Well, of course, what else this woman can have in mind_ …Tairinn shrugged and followed her up the ladder with nothing better to do.

The two of them ended up not being the only ones with too much spare time in their hands. Always up for a good fight, Evelyn and Tairinn spent the whole day drilling the squad, forcing Darius to fight off Lita, then to try to get Silas who had been hiding expertly in the shadows and stabbed Antivan with his daggers every so often, painfully, but not life threatening. Ianthe excused herself from this circus, now even paler than usual, nearly translucent. Her comrades knew by now that arguing with the archer was mission impossible, so she had been left on the lower deck, where rocking of the ship tormented the albino a little less.

 

By the time the sun slowly merged with the horizon, the wind began to rise, throwing the ship from side to side. Trying to overrun the storm, Vala flew swiftly through the waves the whole night, piercing the descending fog. The next day and night had passed in suspense: realizing that the chances to be stuck at Kirkwall docks for repairs rose drastically if they were to get caught in the storm, Vala’s captain chose to stir the ship closer to Free Marches’ shore, preferring to spend extra ten to fifteen hours now than a full day in the City of Chains later.

Templars didn’t even go ashore there. Memories of this place hadn’t been the most pleasant for the better part of the squad and only Lita was watching heavy chains on the necks of the Twins with a smile. She was not frightened by a gloomy appearance of the black rocks and the city cut in it, Lita felt at home. After all, each of them loved their homelands in their own way.

Tairinn, on the other hand, chose to watch the foggy outlines of Ferelden stretching on the opposite side of the Waking Sea. She had enough of Kirkwall for this life and the next too, especially some of city’s most prominent figures. She hadn’t heard of Keren for a long time, but knowing this bastard, if something was to happen in the imminent future, Trevelyan would bet on him having a hand in it and she’ll hit the jackpot for sure.

Seven hours later when water supply had been replenished, Vala, it’s name and origin turning out to be Tevinter and meaning _going through_ in Trade, left Free Marches and headed to Jader in full sails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a hungry creature, I live for feedback. Feeeeed meeee :D *outlast pun intended*


	6. All the Wrong Reasons (to Do the Right Thing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan have never thought his mentor would be like her and still he couldn’t help but trust her words and follow her lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not every Templar wants to chain a mage.

_Drakonis 7th, 9:41 Dragon Age_

_Wednesday_

The second to last night of the sea travel to the Conclave came quietly, covering the dark waters of the Waking Sea with a thick layer of mist. Sensing the sharp claws of longing close on her throat again, Tairinn stood at the bow of the ship peering into overcast sky slowly fading into blackness.

By now Vala was still able to bypass the storm, but the frigate was caught in a strong pull of the waves and was rocking so hard, most of the crew had to cling to the cables not to be thrown overboard. All other sounds were drowning in the roaring of the cold waves, only increasing the sense of unreality that enveloped the Templar. Far from everything she had ever called home, Tairinn struggled to find anything that could distract her from the memories that had been a heavy weight pressing on her consciousness for a long time now, taking her back to the winter of two years ago and into the very day when she had been left alone.

Barely able to overcome a coughing fit, Tairinn clung to the cables and stared into the night. Nausea or not, she wasn’t ready to go to the lower deck, did not have any strength left to explain what’s been going on with her to the squad. While some of them could have already guessed there was something wrong, she hoped to play it down for as long as possible. Ever though her squad had always been understanding and never questioned her loyalties as long as she could perform her duties, Tairinn couldn’t let the Order know she had went off lyrium. Not yet.

Rubbing the aching scar absently, she tuned to watch dark masses of land lit with occasional sparkle of fire far away to her left, hoping they’re not a hallucination this time. Tomorrow afternoon they will be on the hard land again and she would have a chance to see a small piece of Orlais and some of Ferelden for the first time in her life. The return to her ancestor’s homeland felt bittersweet, overshadowed by the Mage-Templar war.

“Ser, captain’s orders to abandon the d-deck.” Aidan’s soft voice broke the silence that hung over the Templar, forcing her turn around. “Fog’s funny again, they say. Easy to see things, bad things.”

In the subdued light of violently shaking oil lamps protected by strong charms, appearance of this very young and awkward dark-haired boy was a welcome respite from her grim thoughts of Dan that had been keeping her awake at nights since Wycome. Sighing heavily, Tairinn went to the hatch leading to the lower deck, hoping that the warmth and cheerful rowdy shanties would lighten her mood somewhat.

Her apprentice threw her a tentative glance and followed her silently. Something was wrong and even though he was still an inexperienced rookie, Aidan had spent enough time with Ser Tairinn in the past year to sense that she had changed - the woman seemed far more detached than usual. Trying to remember where it had started, the boy let his mind wander back to the previous Sunday morning at the Trevelyan estate.

The way the Lieutenant had been moving on the training ground, swinging a heavy zweihander as if it weighs nothing, had been completely different from her preferred combat style, although the tactics, of course, were still recognizable. She still mostly kept defensive stance, but every one of her counterattacks hit home. That was exactly what she had been trying to teach her apprentice: to keep defenses up, forcing the enemy to waste their energy and then, when they became desperate and lost their calm, make rare but accurate attacks. It was a good tactics to use against mages, especially lone ones, because it gave the Templar an opportunity to dispel magical attacks and wear the enemy out, leaving them with too little mana to be a danger. It gave Templar a chance to avoid bloodshed and worthless deaths.

 

After the years of Chantry education thoroughly aimed at bringing him up as mage fearing as possible, Aidan is reluctant to trust his mentor’s word when they meet.

“What are we going to do, Ser?” he asks, uncertain. He had hoped his mentor will be a cool strong warrior that can maybe rip a log in halves with his bare hands, but instead he is met by a tall tired woman in her twenties who doesn’t even wear any armor, just some plain linen shirt and worn breeches. She shakes her head at the sight of him and ushers him to follow her into the overgrown yard of the Monastery. They stop by an old oak tree, watching as the sun melts away the last remnants of winter long gone.

“I’ve been told you have some basic training already so we’ll have a spar to see what you can do later. Now we talk,” she answers as she sits down onto a stone bench that could be as ancient as the Monastery itself and leans heavily onto the crumbling armrests. “Why did you choose the Order, boy?” Aidan stills, trying to come up with a right thing to say, to ensure he is accepted even if by this woman, but she must have sensed it and pats the bench in invitation, “There’s no right or wrong answer. Every one of us who you’ll meet here have their own reasons, I just want to understand yours.”

Taking deep breath, Aidan murmurs quietly, “Because Sister Margaret says I’ll be good at it. She says I can be strong and can protect people from mages.”

“And why do people need to be protected from them?” Aidan sputters for a moment, because how a Templar can not know this?

“Because mages are dangerous and have to be controlled.” The words rush out of him before he has a chance to think about it. They have been engraved in his memory long ago, he remembers them for as long as he remembers himself, Aidan realizes. “Because magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him,” he cites by heart.

“Transfigurations,” the woman nods, her gaze fixed at something above Monastery’s ancient walls that had seen the Fourth Blight and held against it, “second Commandment. Can you cite the third?”

And Aidan does, proud of himself because he have always been one of the best at the orphanage when it came to the Chant of Light. Natural gift, Sister Margaret used to say. “All men are the Work of our Maker’s Hands, From the lowest slaves To the highest kings.”

The woman, Ser Trevelyan, he corrects himself, turns to him with a fire in her eyes and puts her heavy hand onto Aidan’s shoulder. He waits for her approval, but instead has a hard time to believe in one of the first lessons she gives him. “Remember,” she says, “we are all living persons first and foremost, with our own dreams, fears and hopes. The mages may seem different from you because of their gift, but so you are for them, why does it make you any better? Why does it give you any right to judge them?”

Aidan freezes in his place and doesn’t have any answer for his mentor. She doesn’t rush him, just sits here and watches the clouds go by, humming softly some beautiful melodies. It isn’t how he imagined his first day here, but something stirs inside boy’s soul. _Why does it make me any better?_

 

They start training the next day and Aidan has to admit, he was wrong about Ser Tairinn. She is a much cooler Templar than any log ripping man could be.

She meets him on the training ground, still with no armor and only a wooden sword and no shield, but the boy watches the Templar as she stretches and her moves are easy, practiced and _dangerous_. She flashes through stances faster than Aidan can see and training dummies don’t even earn a scratch as she stops her sword mere inches from their stylized necks.

As the woman finishes, Aidan joins her, intent on showing his mentor the best he can do. He tries so hard to reach her, at least once, at least touch her unprotected side with his own training sword, but cannot. She is fast and agile, unbelievingly so for her height and broad complexion, he thinks and misses one more hit on the right shoulder that makes him lose a grip on the sword and will undoubtedly leave a bruise. With a groan he slides to the ground, but Aidan is stubborn and he can’t and won’t give up easily, so he tries to get back to his feet. He wants to earn her respect.

“Good,” Ser Tairinn tells him with a smile and offers a hand. With a grin of his own, Aidan accepts it and, shaking the exhaustion off, asks, “Again!”

“I think it’s quite enough for the first time,” she chuckles, brushes the hair away from her face, letting strong muscles ripple under her clothes and pats him on the head, “I don’t want you to overexert on your first day. Trust me, you’ll get your chance to become sick of hospitals. We don’t have any spirit healers here, boy, which is a loss in my opinion, even if some of them are stuck up morons, so your best shot would be Darius’ salves and those are a biohazard of its own.”

“Mages?” Aidan flinches before he can catch himself. “Why would we need mages?” The smile fades from the woman’s lips and she’s completely serious again, her eyes narrow.

“Can you heal the way they do?” As she asks, she puts away training weapons and beckons Aidan to follow her. They end up in the yard again and the boy sits on the bench promptly, not sure he’s ready to hear more cryptic talks about the kind he’s supposed to oversee in some years.

“No,” he answers sullenly and looks away. Aidan remembers, even if a bit blurry his memories are by this point, how two wanderers, one - a solemn tall man in a dirty feathery robe with a cat catching his shadow, another one -  dark and all smiles and gentle hands, came into the city one day. It was shortly after Kirkwall fell into chaos, month or two maybe, and they seemed to roam Wycome for some time already, asking around for someone.

Aidan remembers them because he was playing that day carelessly near the orphanage and fell from the tree. His palms were bruised and left elbow wasn’t bending in the right angle and there was so much pain he kind of black outed for a moment… And then there they were, the cat man holding him upright and promising it’ll be all right while dark one with a beard touched his hands gently and sang something under his breath making the pain go away. They helped him, then the cat man patted Aidan’s hair softly and asked for the directions to the Monastery. The pair left as soon as he showed them the way, too stunned to do anything and…

He didn’t tell anyone in the orphanage about it, neither he confessed to the Revered Mother at the Sunday service. They were mages, yes, most definitely mages and they weren’t in the Circle as Sisters in the Chantry said mages have to be. _Were they maleficars?_ Aidan shudders at the sudden thought. _Maleficars use blood magic and Sister Margaret says they look gross, these two were just tired, but they helped and did nothing wrong to me. So these two weren’t. They were… okay mages_ , he decides.

When he tells Ser Tairinn about it, about those men, she groans and covers her eyes with a hand, as if holding back. “Yes, those two are okay mages… One of the best descriptions someone ever given these morons, I think.” Finally she collapses onto the bench too and starts laughing. “Okay… mages! And it was you who told them where the Monastery is? Oh boy!”

“You know them, Ser?” Aidan is perplexed. His mentor knows them and knows they weren’t in the Circle? That means those two were apostates at least and still she did nothing to catch them?

“Yeah, we’ve seen some shit together,” she nods and her eyes get a bit cloudy as she remembers, “Captain’ve nearly had a heart attack when they marched right there. It was a headache to get them to the docks without raising alarm after we talked though. Assholes.” She clasps Aidan shoulder in her iron grip and watches him dead in the eyes, “The Beardy is Keren, the Birdy is Anders and If you ever see them again, run. They’re shitmagnets, boy, and you don’t want to test your luck. And if there’s a tattooed elf with them...”

“Then what?” he is confused, maybe the most he have ever been in his life. Ser Tairinn speaks of mages, but it’s not suspicious, nor it is angry like people in the Chantry did. There’s a crooked smile on her face and her voice is filled with a badly hidden of respect mixed with sadness.

“Then find some high place and enjoy the show.” She shakes her head, as if trying to break away from the memories and stands up, watching the sun reach zenith. It’s time for a theory lesson now so Aidan hurries back to his feet and follows after his mentor towards the enormous library hidden it the depth of Monastery buildings. Just as they are to leave the yard, Ser Tairinn takes a deep breath and murmurs softly only for him to hear, “And keep away from the Chantry for Maker’s sake.”

 

“Ser, what is a litany?” Aidan asks his mentor four weeks later. They sit before the fire on the beach of a small Maker forgotten island at the mouth of Minanter river. The Templar stops chewing on the salted rusk and hums thoughtfully, watching over other members of the squad who sleep peacefully under the soft glow of the moons.

Darius is very shifty at nights, Aidan knows by now, always turning and tossing and whispering something in a broken Antivan. Well, Aidan thinks it’s Antivan, he’s not really well versed in languages. Lita sighs softly in her sleep as she rolls over to the alchemist and he quiets somewhat. They may never get along in a daylight, but the boy sees her doing this nearly every night as some sort of an automatic response. Silas is snoring loudly in his bedroll, his right hand not letting go of his dagger even while he sleeps. Ianthe is a tiny heap of cloth and translucent hair by his side, not bothered by the noise in the slightest, while Captain sleeps with her head covered by her gambeson so tightly, there’s only a small hole for air near her nose.

Aidan is used to them by now and he has a better understanding of this Templar thing. It’s not what he’d been taught at the orphanage, sometimes completely opposite from Chantry preaching. These people, not just Ser Tairinn and her comrades, but most of active Templars of Her Last Word, they see the world in a different light, moving as if weighed down by their life experiences.

Silas is afraid of fire magic but never tells why and is very religious. Ianthe doesn’t fear anything, knows countless rites and only speaks in verses of the Chant of Light. Captain has a mage friend in the Wycome Circle who can become the next Grand Enchanter and maybe he is her lover. Lita has three older brothers and a sister, two of them were mages and have been nearly killed by villagers before Templars took them to the Gallows. Darius jokes a lot, brews strange things and never takes off a pendant that looks like an empty phylactery.

No one in the squad, even his mentor, talks about it but Aidan heard rumors from other apprentices that Revered Mother Nita - the head of the Monastery - granted permission for the squad to be sent to Kirkwall to help suppress the unrest on Darius request and even approved of relocation of more than thirty mages from Gallows to Wycome Circle. He also knows that Lita visits the Circle regularly to see her brother, but Darius never comes here and is taken off guard roster. Their relationships with the Order are not picture perfect and easy, but complicated, sometimes unbelievably so, and Aidan finds himself wondering why.

“Litany is a very important and complex magical object, you see,” Ser Tairinn tells him then, oblivious to boy’s travel down the memory lane. “The one you read about was created by Adralla of Vyrantium to protect the person holding it, mage or not, from mind controlling spells.”

“So…” Aidan is unsure of how to put his thoughts in words and starts stammering. “Mages created protection from magic and gave to us?” He shakes his hand with a scroll in the air and looks questioningly at the woman on the opposite side of the bonfire. “It makes no sense, they lose the advantage!”

“What advantage, boy?” Ser Tairinn asks him with a hint of humorless laugh in her low voice and when he mutters stubbornly about mages wanting to control people’s minds, she loses it. “They fear control no less than we do, Aidan! I’ll tell you this, most of the mages couldn’t care less for controlling us, they have enough on their plates without it.”

“And what do they do, Ser?” he asks arrogantly, feeling surprisingly sure in his arguments. “Magic! They just sit in their towers and read books, nothing more. Except for those who run and cause more chaos and whom we need to protect people from!”

The Templar sighs wearily and watches the moons for the time. There’s still enough till the end of their watch to set some facts straight, so she stands up from her place and ushers Aidan towards the river, pointing at some place where Wycome’s lights shimmer above the water even in the night.

“Look at the things they create, Aidan. Do you see the lights? These lanterns don’t give in to any wind and rains, do you know why?” When the boy just stares at her with his brows raised, she inclines her head somewhat disapprovingly and explains, “They are enchanted. Charms that give us comfort, enchantments that we use in crafts, knowledge that gives us progress, all due to the mages from the Circles. It all may seem black and white now, boy, good and bad, but world is rarely so.” She watches him thoughtfully, as if indecisive. “Don’t get me wrong, magic can be and is dangerous, sometimes overly so. But can’t we say so about a sword? An arrow or a kitchen knife? A smith’s hammer? It’s all about the hand that wields the power, not the power itself.”

“But Ser!” Aidan feels his cheeks redden and is grateful to for the darkness, surrounding him. “You speak of magic as of instrument, not weapon!”

“Because it is, boy. Everything can be a weapon in the hands of the one who wishes for it. Destruction is an easy path, but not the one chosen by many, this is what you need to understand. Will you blame every cook of being dangerous and imprison them all because they have knives?” Aidan shakes his head, his grey eyes widening as he imagines the scenario. “And if I tell you that some of cooks are indeed murderers? Will you?” Ser Tairinn continues to question him, her gaze inquisitive.

“No!” he scoffs, “How can you say it! We can’t just blame all for what some did!” Aidan watches the woman beside him closely. The Templar Lieutenant. Who tells him that mages aren’t bad? Or magic? “You mean Circles are prisons for mages because they have magic?”

“Is this what you came to?” She smiles, but it is crooked and seems a bit sad to the boy. “I’m not here to give you easy answers, boy, but I’d like to think I gave you some food for thought. What you make of it will be all yours.” She throws one more glance on the flickering lights of the city and goes back to the bonfire, ready to wake Lita for the next watch.

“Ser?” He really is confused by this talk.

“Just remember that mages didn’t exactly choose to be born this way. But for better or worse they were and don’t you think it makes us all alike?” The woman takes a sip from the flask swinging on her belt and hums in agreement to her thoughts. “We all don’t choose who we are at the beginning, but we get to choose who we become: friends or enemies, saviors or killers, helpers or bystanders... Of course some mages will want to kill you on sight, Aidan, but only because taking Templar path means becoming their oppressor. You’ll get it once you’re stationed in the Circle.” Ser Tairinn touches Lita’s shoulder gently and as soon as her fellow warrior wiggles out of her sleeping bag, she falls in Kirlwaller’s place, leaving Aidan to think everything over.

 

They get back to this talk a month later when the spring is already slowly turning into hot, windy and damp seaside summer. “Another two lives lost…” The Templar sighs and closes her eyes tiredly.

For some time they are silent.

“Aidan, do you believe in Maker?” Ser Tairinn asks the boy suddenly once they enter Monastery yard, just a day back from a mission close to Antivan border. That mission was the one where people had died, a man in a Circle robes and a woman, his sacrifice. It was a nasty rite they managed to stop, though Aidan was ordered to stay behind and not engage in the fighting. The squad had nearly lost Silas to the bloodmage’s spell and still his mentor is speaking about two lives lost as if that killer’s live mattered!

“Of course I do!” the boy exclaims, but quiets suddenly, watching the woman wince. “Do you, Ser?”

“In a way,” she mutters, sliding down the tree bark on the warm if a little wet ground. “Although his plan seems more elusive with every year I live. That man on the border...” She lets her eyes linger on the clouds that pass over them lazily and it seems to Aidan they're shining golden. “He wasn’t a bloodmage.”

“But!” Aidan sputters, visibly angry, “there was the rite! And he hurt Silas! And the woman was dead!”

“You still have so much to learn, boy. We’ll spend more time on the rites, maybe Captain will let us enter the Circle next month so you could learn by example.” Ser Tairinn hides her face in the crook of her elbow, not letting him see her expression anymore. “The woman was his… wife you can say. She was pregnant and they fled the Circle because,” she rubs the back of her neck, still not looking at him, “the Chantry would take their child. They always take children away.”

 _Do you know why you’ve been permitted to join the Order so late,_ she wants to ask him, _do you know why they wait for so long with some orphans?_ She needs to tell him, to make him understand, but just can’t destroy his nonexistent but safe past and scream _One or both of your parents were mages and the likes of us took you away only to put you back in the Circle if you inherited their magic or to teach you to hate it and lead to the Order if you didn’t!_

“But he fought!” Aidan seems to lose most of his antagonism though and argues mostly out of spite now.

“She died of blood loss when he had been too late to complete the healing rite, boy. He was a mage, yes, but first he was a man who lost his loved one. The demon from the Fade felt his weakness and used it against him.” The voice of the Templar is dull and she doesn’t look up once, letting the words fall heavy from her mouth.

“But isn’t it why there are Circles though?” Aidan moves to sit closer to his mentor and throws his head up to watch thin white clouds float aimlessly towards the sea. “To make sure the mages aren’t possessed and don’t become abominations?”

“In a way. Though, why do you think they run or at least try to? Why some turn to dark rites and blood magic, that is, if Circles are made with good intentions?” The question hangs in the air unanswered. That’s what have been bothered Aidan since they started this talks and he still doesn’t have a clue.

“Erm… I don’t think taking their kids away is right, but it can’t be the only cause,” he tries, knowing by now that Ser Tairinn asks him this for a reason. For his reasons, to be true.

“It’s worse, Aidan. They’re not permitted to have any in the first place, but you’re right, it is not the only reason and not the main one for sure.”

“Because they aren’t free there,” he says and, although he knew it for quite some time, the understanding of that lost freedom always eluded him. Until now. Now it seems like his eyes are opened after all this years of blissful ignorance and stubborn belief. “But it isn’t fair!”

Ser Tairinn just nods and puts her hand on his knee for a moment. “Life is rarely so, Aidan. Order is almost never.”

After two month at the Monastery and with the squad, he came to know them all somewhat and, even if it can be wrong, Aidan can to some extent imagine their life and reasons behind the service. Except his own mentor. For all her prodding and attempts to open his eyes to the reality of the Order and Circles, she has never told him nearly anything about herself. “But why you are a Templar then?” he asks, puzzled. She looks up at Aidan and smiles gently before standing on her knees before him as she speaks.

“Because there’s war in the south. Because it started here, in Free Marches and maybe I haven’t seen how it happened, but I saw people kill each other just because they have magic or lyrium in their blood. Because they think they fight for freedom or for safety when in reality it all comes down to power. Because I cannot stand aside and watch if I can stop the killing blow and I don’t care who’s trying to deliver it. Because if the only way to bring change is to change the system from the inside, I’ll stay in the system no matter how much it tries to destroy me and do everything for this change, even if it kills me.”

 

It had seemed so strange for Aidan to watch this tall, dark skinned woman shred to pieces what he’d been taught for all his life, but Ser Trevelyan spoke with such… conviction? For all the wrongs she saw in the Order, instead of leaving it, she chose to stay and be the voice of reason for those who will listen. Captain Evelyn and Lita, Silas and Darius, even Ianthe… In the end they all have been the same, standing in the middle and trying to carry out the orders they’ve been given while spilling as little blood and giving as many second chances, as possible.

“You see, Aidan, you’ve got an opportunity that isn’t given to many. You’ve ended up at Her Last Word, one of the last neutral Order hubs out there, at least while Revered Mother Nita oversees us. So if you want to do good, to give a chance to those mages you will meet too,” Ser Tairinn took his hand and held it between hers, “I’ll do my best to teach you everything I know.” And Aidan couldn’t help but trust her words and follow her lead.

 

Aidan followed his mentor down the hatch to the lower deck of Vala, still watching her closely. She had always been like an older sister for him, not the one to order to change his beliefs, but rather to give him options to choose from and he was immensely grateful to her for it. Ser Tairinn was an enigma, he had been once again reminded that morning in the Trevelyan estate. For the year that he had spent under her tutelage Aidan had never seen her so fierce, sharp… brutal?  Remembering the cold, piercing look she had met him with when he interrupted her spar with Lord Trevelyan, Aidan shivered nervously, trying to shake off the sense of wrongness.

One day he would discover the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be the last before the events of the game start.


	7. His Last Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loss is never healed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is heavily songfic-ish, so I highly recommend to listen to Run by Daughter in [The Darkest Hour playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLk00qgej-j-xF-JZ4muiyKeyRCI8iOocU) before or while reading this one. You can also see some songs featured in future chapters that are already written!  
> Let's finish pre-game part on a depressing note, shall we?

The lower deck met the swordswoman with a smell of stale air, alcohol and old wood. The space was even more crowded than she had thought and not at all silent. Tairinn gave herself a mental shake and approached a bunch of clapping men that had gathered around a young sailor, a boy not older than Aidan, with a lute in his calloused hands. Apparently, he had just finished his song and Captain Evelyn, noticing the approach of her second, waved her to come closer with a pale hand for once free from the confines of a veridium gauntlet.

“Hey, Rin, come join us! We’ve got a contest here!”, she bellowed with a broad smile that made Tairinn squirm uncomfortably under her armor. Maybe it wasn’t really wise to wear her cuirass on the ship where they could only be attacked by some flyfish, but the woman used the familiar weight to keep herself grounded in reality.

“And how can your humble servant be of use?” Trevelyan scowled, dropping on the hard wooden floor beside her superior, “Shall I dance? Or acapella Transfigurations will suffice?” She was so not in the mood for this shit.

“Someone’s out of humor,” Darius commented snidely from one of the bulkheads, immediately receiving a slap from frowning Lita. Tairinn pulled a smile on in silent thanks to the bald woman. _Here goes solidarity_ , the thought, watching the man groan, “Ow, watch it!” Antivan tried to move away from glaring warrior but wasn’t fast enough and got kicked in the shin.

“And out for blood.” Tairinn answered acidly, adding a slap on alchemist’s shoulder for a good measure, her amber eyes flashing. “Really, what do you want?” She turned back to the blond, squinting suspiciously, leaving the pair to their wordless bickering.

“These nice lads,” the Captain of the squad nodded at the colorful company, “shared some of their lore and, well, we remembered Fox with his ballads.” Templars fell silent at the sound of that name and looked away from Tairinn. “You knew him better than anyone else, Rin. Sing us something?” Evelyn pleaded and even though not a single muscle twitched on her face, her grass-green eyes were filled with sadness.

Tairinn felt her lungs not coming for air as memories that had been barely pressed into the back of her mind returned with a vengeance. The wooden bulkheads became the walls of the Ansburg tavern, sailors chatting in anticipation turned into a drunken crowd, wet traces of spilled ale on the floor gleamed red as pools of blood. Shuddering, Tairinn clenched her fists and exhaled sharply, nodding. Evelyn knew that she and Dan were close, but she hardly understood how her request hurt Tairinn. Still, the man was long dead but his music? It needed to live on, so why not? Only...

“Listen closely,” she said softly to Aidan, who stood behind her and watched his mentor expectantly. “When I'm gone, save this one for your own students. The names are forgotten, but words… They can live forever.” The boy's eyes widened in surprise as his gaze followed his Tairinn, who slowly approached improvised stage on stiff legs and took the lute from sailor’s hands.  
  
“I'm not a bard, gentlemen, so the music can be not quite the state of art.” She was downplaying her talents somewhat: the older Trevelyan twins had all been taught the basics of playing a lute, the most popular musical instrument in Free Marches, so the sounds Tairinn could produce would be quite bearable. “Dan, uh, Red Fox, started this song shortly before his death. I finished the lyrics and... I want the world to remember his last words.” The woman touched the strings gently and closed her eyes, beginning to play a simple melody that carried her thoughts far away.

 

 _While I powder my nose_ _  
_ _He will powder his gums_

Her Last Word tended to attract a special kind of people, Revered Mother Nita always used to say, so the appearance of a redheaded archer with roguishly handsome face and no baggage except for a withered lute and steelwood bow hadn’t broken the long established pace of life in the Monastery.

People came and went here, often put off by the free and somewhat heretical views of the dwellers of this ancient place, where men and women made no difference between themselves and mages, preferred containment and education over the loss of life and spoke freely. So when one more Templar, whose fiery as his hair attitude made him no friends in his previous squad, joined Evelyn’s team after a short talk with the Revered Mother, Tairinn just shrugged and requisitioned one more sleeping bag from the storage. Here, in Her Last Words, people were taken for their value and not for their past so she asked him no questions.

They found a common ground quickly behind sarcastic jokes and interest in music and non-Chantry literature. At some point they began to trust each other enough for Tairinn to tell the archer of how she hated the feeling of hopelessness and weakness which her every dose of lyrium left her with and in his black eyes she could read the same. Something shifted between them that day.

They lived on and fought on, closer than comrades, but still not more. They kept their silences and they talked about the letters and stories from Tairinn’s Chantry-bound brother, learning that the blue powder had really been breaking them, bending their will and weakening their minds. She couldn’t tell that had been unexpected with all the pledges Order and Chantry greedily asked and nothings, disguised as power and control, they offered so easily. Knowing and accepting had never been the same for the Lord Trevelyan’s stubborn daughter though.

At the end of 9:38, when Satinalia’s festive mood took over the old city and even older Monastery, coloring its withered red walls with white snow and yellow lanterns enchanted to hold on through the winter by the mages of Wycome Circle, Tairinn and Dan became bold enough to hide their philters and ignore the first pangs of withdrawal for the first time it their life. Or just in her, Tairinn hadn’t known for sure.

They smiled and trained and sang for everybody who asked, willing to return at least some of the kindness to the place that had accepted them as they were. When Evelyn’s “friend” Enchanter Ivor had asked for someone to come to the Circle itself for festivities, they took over gladly, letting their Captain have some long overdue rest, teaching the kids sing something other than rites and Chants instead.

They did not advertise being an item because they were not together really. Two friends who decided to walk along a dangerous, almost deadly path, they shared secrets, fears and sometimes a bed, which usually was replaced by dark corners of taverns in long forgotten by Maker places or hastily placed tents or cobwebbed cells of Her Last Word. Their service was the only thing left for them both, a man and a woman that had always been ready to leave for a new mission at any moment.

 _And if I try to get close_  
_He is already gone_  
_Don't know where he's going_ _  
Don't know where he's been_

Always on the run to somewhere, they endured many hardships, but never crossed the line which would make their relationship more specific. The Fox was about a decade older than Tairinn and clearly had much to see before he came to the Templars, but she learned not to ask questions long before they met. His life before the Order and before he came to Wycome was shrouded in secrecy for her the same way as for the rest of the squad. Frankly, it didn’t bother her at all. Dan was one of the few who had never tried to get into her soul and she responded in kind.

 _But he is restless at night_ _  
_ _'Cause he has horrible dreams_

Dan felt the withdrawal first. Two and a half weeks after they went off lyrium, he found Tairinn staring at the blade of a sharp dagger carelessly left by Lita near the grindstone of Her Last Word’s training grounds, silently took her by the hand and led into one of the old wing’s half ruined cells. Clinging to each other, they spent the night on the old withered bench, trying to escape the nightmares that flooded his and then her nights.

This had become a habit surprisingly fast: to seek salvation, distract each other and forget that the chances of surviving in this attempt to break free were negligible, in battles and sparrings during the day and each other’s bodies at night.

 _So we lay in the dark,_  
_We've got nothing to say_  
_Just the beating of hearts,_ _  
Like two drums in the grey_

Still Tairinn knew, the withdrawal wasn’t the only thing that plagued Dan’s mind. Everyone who cared to listen to his songs a little bit closer could feel it. The pain, the longing, the emptiness were no strangers to her too since her very childhood when she had been too young to push the Voice away by meditations and ignore her mother’s suffocating attention, but this… It just felt different. Dan felt like he was dying a little everyday and if Tairinn’s eyes gleamed with mute gold in their shared darkness of sleepless nights, they just kept drowning in each other as if it never happened. It was always easier to ignore than face the pain.

Trekking through lowlands and mountain passes of Free Marches sometimes came to a halt, followed by unhurried evenings in Her Last Word. They kept on living mechanically, not allowing each other to surrender to frequent moments of cold indifference to everything including their own survival even if it was hard.

Less and less often they talked, afraid to break the delicate balance, more and more often their squad mates hid their smirks looking at fresh bite marks and scratches on the Red Fox and Tairinn’s bodies. When scorching hot pleasure died down, they spent hours lying side by side, waiting for a new morning when they would have to pretend that everything was going as it should.

 _I don't know what we're doing_  
_I don't know what we've done_ _  
But the fire is coming_

By the end of the first month Tairinn couldn’t care less than keep going. Her body felt as an empty shell pierced by hundreds needles tearing her apart. She forgot how to breathe sometimes and only the greenish blue haze invading her vision and burning in her throat were enough of a warning to make her lungs constrict once again.

The fire became her nightmare then. The swordswoman, she was always on the frontlines and it was no surprise she had nearly ran into a fire wall spell of the blood mage the squad had been hunting for days. She came to her senses seconds before it engulfed her and it took her enormous effort to simply stop her own momentum. There was no time for negation, the woman had no power to cut mage’s connection to the Fade fully and no faith for making the world _real_ , so she only managed to break some subtle ties binding the man to the Fade. It was barely enough to let the flame touch her skin with heat but without burning, flowing down the shield in bright rivulets. A moment later Dan’s arrow burst the eye of the maleficar, ending the fight for good.

When the battle was over Tairinn had almost collapsed, realizing that she could no longer bear the ache that whacked her with icy tremors. Her blood felt empty, calling out for something unreachable as Templar’s body rioted against her and only Dan's strong hands stopped Tairinn, pulling the philter box away from her.

The edge seemed so close that time that even days later, falling asleep, Tairinn still heard that call mixed with distant rumble of the Voice. She could never make out the words, but it sounded angry at its bearer that nearly let them both die. No matter how hard she tried to put the memories aside, every time Tairinn laid her head on Dan's shoulder, she saw fire in the bright red strands of his hair. It took so much to stay.

 _So I think we should run_ _  
_ _I think we should run_

Her deep voice filled the air, echoing through the deck and creating beautiful if decadent harmonies, hypnotizing the audience. The Lieutenant's hands paused for a moment over the lute as she inhaled deeply, remembering her own furious whisper disturbed only by the clatter of the rain on the tent flaps. Not bothering to hide the pain in her voice anymore, she continued, spitting out the words she wrote shortly after everything went to hell.

 _While I put on my shoes_  
_He will button his coat_  
_And we will step outside_  
_Checking that the coast is clear on both sides_ _  
'Cause we don't wanna be seen_

It was difficult even to be near lyrium. The song gave no peace, becoming unbearable every time someone got their first-aid kit out and by the sixth week Tairinn could hear its chant even as she mounted Hoka that carried Trevelyan’s own philter in the saddlebag.

The very idea of leaving everything behind seemed foolish and cowardly at first, but as the days went on… Hiding to wait out for the fever to subside became the only thought burning through Dan’s mind. Withdrawal always came to them suddenly and was so intrusive that, despite all vows and promises they had given, both Templars began to look for ways to leave, unconsciously or not. Tairinn knew that their secret could be uncovered any day and couldn’t even bother to be afraid anymore.

 _Oh, this is suicide_ _  
_ _But you can't see the ropes_

Three days later she was cursing herself for being weak, standing in a dark alley on the outskirts of Wycome and squeezing a thin crystal in her hand. Next to her, Dan was breathing heavily, clinging to the stone wall as if he was drowning. They came here to leave the lyrium on the threshold of the old clinic, not able to resist the temptation anymore, but even touching the stuff was like a drug now and Tairinn didn’t know if she would be able to let go.

It felt intoxicating. She couldn’t stop thinking that if she would squeeze the crystal a little harder, it would easily penetrate the skin and seep into her blood, whispering its frightening lullabies to her broken mind.

The Templars didn’t remember how they returned to the Monastery, but in the morning when the bell announced the beginning of a new day, severely exhausted Tairinn pushed the sleepy Fox away from her and slowly rose her aching head up, looking around. They were laying in the same room where it all began with their legs and arms intertwined, fully clothed and smelling of burnt ozone.

With a pained groan Tairinn sat up to lift from the floor a crumpled sheet of paper that turned out to be her unfinished letter to Ethan.

 _And I won't tell my mother_  
_It's better she don't know_  
_And he won't tell his folks,_ _  
'Cause they're already ghosts_

There were only three short phrases sprawled across parchment, uneven and urgent. “The experiment failed. The song doesn’t stop. Tell mom I was sent to Anderfels.”

Consciousness refused to reveal what had compelled her to write these lines, but, judging by the contents, Tairinn had been ready for it to be her last words. The woman got up and realized that the fever had ceased and only the headache reminded her that until quite recently her body was ready to stop breathing. At her feet she found another piece of paper, where the dots crowded the irregularly drawn music sheet, forming a melody. The very thing she was playing now.

 _And we'll just keep each other,_  
_As safe as we can_ _  
Until we reach the border_

From that moment things seemed to go back to the relative normality. As Dan started to get better he went to spend most of his time at the shooting range, while Tairinn asked Captain Evelyn to let her go to the Wycome Circle for a couple of days to train in dispelling magic. Both spent their nights in their respective cells for once, breathing deeper in the anticipation of a good uninterrupted full night sleep.

And then the missive from Tantervale came.

 _Until we make our plan_ _  
_ _To run_

The dust flew up from under horses’ hooves while the dark-haired Templar woman bickered with sniffling Darius about the use of embrium in treatment of the common cold, which he picked up on the second day of the journey along the fast waters of Minanter. Lita was swaying in the saddle, smiling blissfully as she continued to weave a wreath of last year’s barren-flower blossoms. The Fox let go of the reins and let the horse just follow captain's mare. He was looking thoughtfully into the overcast sky, his head thrown back and eyelashes already covered with snow, while Silas and red-eyed Ianthe sang Threnodites. Dan seemed to take a temporary respite, generously granted to them by Maker, to think.

When the squad arrived to the outskirts of Ansburg, it was unanimously decided to avoid the city commotion and stop in a small tavern just beginning to fill for the evening instead. Most of the Templars went up to the second floor to get out of their gear and refreshen in three scanty rooms they had paid for. Tairinn was one of them, while the Fox stayed back to grab a table and order a dinner and five water skins, his eyes glinting in mischief at the sight of a lute at the bartender’s right.

No one could have thought that an angry, drunk farmer would break into the place with a pitchfork at the ready, knocking the door off the hinges, and try to kill the owner of the tavern because the man had allegedly slept with farmer’s daughter. No one could have thought Dan would try to stop him by standing in front of the accused. No one could have stopped him because for the first time in weeks Dan was alone.

When Tairinn and Lita ran down with their swords bare, hearing the screams and brawl noises, Dan was already lying on the floor and the scarlet dark blood was oozing from the deep open wound on his chest. Between all the wars this man had waged, his body’s weakened reflexes made sure this was the only one he lost.

 _Will you stay with me my love_ _  
_ _For another day?_

Dan’s hoarse voice was barely audible through the thrumming in Tairinn’s ears. Blood was seeping from his mouth, leaving a thin path on his porcelain white cheek and disappeared in the fiery red, almost burning hair.

“Don’t,” she whispered, not feeling tears slide down her face. “Don’t you dare to die like this!”  
  
_'Cause I don't want to be alone,_ _  
_ _When I'm in this state_

Maybe it was her. Maybe she had always been destined to lose every person who came to matter to her. First Mari, then Ruth, Yenne and now...

 _Will you stay with me my love?_ _  
_ _'Til we're old and grey_

Dropping to her knees, Tairinn took Dan’s wrist, allowing the man squeeze her palm with his thin weakening fingers. He was dying on Tairinn’s arms and she could do nothing to help him, nothing to to save him, nothing.... Even the strongest healer’s spell wouldn’t be able to close the wound that had almost torn apart his chest, and she was no healer. She was of no use and she would let him die. Again.

 _'Cause I don't wanna be alone_ _  
_ _When these bones decay_

“Please, no!” she cried, but it was too late. She had always been too late.

Tairinn’s world split up into before and after. She didn’t keep her promise, didn’t save him, didn’t stop. The last words fell from Dan's numb lips and his dark, almost black eyes stilled forever.

 

The high note rang through the stale air of the lower deck when Tairinn stroke the lute gently for the last time and looked up at her comrades. Evelyn stood with her fists clenched, biting her lip almost to the point of drawing blood and not hiding her reddened eyes. Darius and Lita sat shoulder to shoulder for the first time in several months, not arguing but taking turns drinking from the flask with the infusion of the royal elfroot. With the naked eye it was easy to see that alchemist’s hands were shaking.

Ianthe was watching Aidan with her sinister, otherworldly smile. She looked like she was trying to make sure the boy understood what his mentor was trying to tell. Tairinn met his gray eyes filled with unshed tears with her own, letting him see the pools of blackness and molten gold. He knew now whom she had been mourning.

The sailors were silent, surprised by the unexpectedly hopeless and gloomy song, and only the young boy, the owner of the lute, came up to Trevelyan gingerly, staring at her as if she had given him a new world.

“Would you mind if I write it down?” he asked timidly, clearly expecting a negative answer.

Giving the instrument back, Tairinn smiled tiredly instead. “Lyrics and notes, I’ll hand you both before we drop the anchor. Deal? We won’t have time for songs soon, but it’ll be good if at least someone remembers the Red Fox.”

Nodding gratefully, the sailor took her place and, touching the strings with a sharp whistle, began to sing something about ten barrels of wine in the Bay of Rialto. Others picked up a familiar melody joyfully, clapping rhythmically to support the boy.  
  
“I won’t forget, Ser.” Aidan was unusually serious because for him _this_ was not a simple promise. Without even knowing it, the future Templar had just given his first vow. Tairinn took him by the shoulders and went to the first mate who’d been in charge of alcohol for the night. She hoped to get ridiculously drunk.

“I know you won’t, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading as always! Comments and reviews are welcome and appreciated in this house ;)  
> Till the next time when the action begins!


	8. Enemy of Convenience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mission: impossible. Survival: not guaranteed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhh, this one took me by surprise for sure. From 2,5k to 7k in three days, holy socks, I haven't been so tiredly proud since... well, since the last chapter. Anyway, decisions are made, people get to be dead, story continues!

_Drakonis 12th, 9:41 Dragon Age_

_Monday_

Tairinn was floating aimlessly in the sea of opaque muddy green mist and it felt like eternity finally took her in its cold embrace. The nothingness was a welcome respite from the days of… what? She couldn’t begin to remember. There, in the vast space filled with thick damp fog, was no sound, no time, no pain, so Trevelyan couldn’t bother less.

The pain came back first. Her body, long ago used to heal burns, cuts and bruises much faster than any normal person could, was aching with dangerous urgency. The blood, incomplete and rebellious against the absence of lyrium, pounded in woman’s ears so demandingly. Lyrium… Order. Mission?

Tairinn jolted awake, back to consciousness, and tried to open her eyes with a pained moan. When no sound escaped her throat, she stilled, suddenly aware of her surroundings or, more precisely, the lack of thereof. There was no rocking and rustle of waves, the air didn’t smell of salt and seaweed, so she wasn’t onboard of Vala anymore. But where?

It took her a great effort and power of will to raise heavy eyelids at last, but the sight she was met with made Tairinn forget about pain and exhaustion.

In front of her stood tan short-haired woman in her thirties maybe, bending over the Templar menacingly. High cheekbones, a square scarred jaw, gray eyes and thin lips curled in a disdainful frown were somewhat familiar, but no name came to mind. _A noblewoman_ , Tairinn thought absently, _most likely from Nevarra or western parts of Free marches, blood’s not water for her to look like that_. A sturdy and clearly worn veridium armor, _expensive_ , only confirmed these suspicions.

Tairinn tried to move, feeling her feet getting numb from sitting too long in a frigid position, but nearly fell face first into the floor from the sense of vertigo and, _wait! Why are my hands tied?!_  She tried not to panic, but to no avail because the very moment she finally took a closer look at her captor, the Templar knew that something really horrendous had happened and, apparently, she was chosen to blame.

It was the symbol on breastplate that Tairinn recognized almost immediately - the Eye of the Seekers was staring at her even more scornfully than its bearer. Tairinn didn’t have to guess anymore, the woman in front of her was none other than Seeker Pentaghast and, Maker preserve Tairinn, this Seeker hadn’t been heard to fuck around without a good reason. If only she could remember what had happened after the squad left the ship and what was Tairinn doing on her knees in some dust smelling dungeon, shackled in front of Divine Justinia’s Right Hand?

The expression on warrior’s face did nothing to alleviate Tairinn’s fears. She was staring silently, so the Templar found she couldn’t do anything but to try to put up a good front and finally find out what had happened.

 

“Good, uhh, day, Seeker Pentaghast?” she tried, but the greeting turned out more like a question. The angry mask of her captor shifted for a moment, showing something akin to surprise, but returned to its place in a split second. Tairinn groaned inwardly, watching the Seeker take one calculated step closer, _this is fucking bad..._

“Do we know each other?” It seemed the woman became even more suspicious. _Demons, I need to stop her before she turns my blood into a freaking firestorm_ , Tairinn winced and took a deep breath, trying to clear her elusive thoughts.

“No, not personally. But you have a reputation in our...” Tairinn nodded at her chestplate with the Templar symbol on it, “... Circles. I’d salute you, but my hands are bound.” The Marcher shook her shackled hands as if to prove her willingness to maintain the hierarchy.

“Ah, joys of being famous...” A choked laugh rang from behind the Seeker's back, whose frame was hiding almost entire dungeon from Trevelyan’s eyes. The soft voice of the speaker was melodic and deep.

 _Familiar intonations. Is she trying to appear harmless? Feels like the Game… A bard?_ The situation became more and more absurd with every minute, but the Templar was ready to bet that since the Right Hand of the Divine was in front of her, there was nothing strange in the Left Hand being nearby. _What was her name? Anne? Lilith?_ Thoughts rushed through Tairinn’s head like nugs through the grain barn, but she couldn’t grab at least one.

“I beg your pardon, can I find out what I'm held here for...?” Tairinn didn’t have a chance to finish speaking because a sharp bolt of pain pierced her left palm and flared up like a wildfire, stealing her breath. For a second, she thought she was blinded, but after a few blinks the woman realized that a bright, poisonous green light came from her own hand. Hissing, Trevelyan tried to clench her fist, but fingers refused to bend and the agony engulfed her, pulsating through her body from the center of the left palm to the tips of her toes.

A thunderous blast came from somewhere up above all of sudden and the whole building shuddered, throwing everyone who had been in the dungeon to the side. Only by a miracle the Templar didn’t hit her head against the cold stone floor, softening the collision with her elbow. The Seeker managed to stay upright and, closing the remaining distance between them, grabbed Tairinn by the edge of her breastplate deftly, returning the woman to her sitting position, finally revealing a little bit more of the place she’d been kept at.

The dungeon seemed old, with its stone walls covered with moss and grime from the torches. The smell of oil, wet stale air and burnt ozone was suffocating, but what was even more frightening… Tairinn was surrounded by five soldiers with hateful eyes, each of their swords aimed at her neck, ready to behead her at the command of the second woman that appeared from behind Seeker’s shoulder.

She was dressed in a strange armor, a weird mix of vertical velvet fabric straps and chain mail. Her face was almost completely hidden by a hood, showing only a thin line of a pointy chin and full but pierced in a deep frown lips. Squatting in front of the Templar woman, she watched her squirm for a moment, before offering frighteningly calmly, “We have every reason to suspect you in blowing up the Conclave with this thing.” She pointed at the green light still emanating from Templar’s ungloved palm. _I know_ ! _Her name is Leliana! ...wait!_

“What!? Conclave...blown up? How did it...” Tairinn jerked away from her in horror when the Left Hand’s words sunk in. Her question, however, was cut short by the Seeker.

“Everyone!” she growled as she went around the prisoner and stopped behind her, “Everyone who was in the Temple is dead! Except for you.” She nearly spit out the last words, but Tairinn didn’t care. The events of last days were nothing but a mystery but Trevelyan refused to believe she could have done something like this. She hadn’t had neither power, nor reasons for something so appalling.

“And we want to know why,” the second woman added, taking off her hood. Tairinn stumbled back again, seeing red hair, not even close to the same color as Dan had, but still too red. Too close. Understanding came slowly, but to believe it was impossible. _Hundreds of people, including the Divine herself and... No! Captain, the squad too? They were there, they can’t be dead_!

Tairinn shut her eyes tightly, hiding the way the Voice affected her, whispering something intangible but cruel, clouding her judgement. _It can’t!_ she pleaded silently, _It must be a dream, a horrible, despicable dream! It’s just lyrium tricks my mind._ She had to wake up.

But her empty hopes were broken as the cruel reality settled in, when the Seeker grabbed her hair, literally poking Trevelyan face first into her glowing hand. “Explain this!” she snarled and Tairinn felt chills creeping down her spine. Suddenly she became very hot, it felt as if her own blood was rioting against its owner, going faster through her veins, burning her from the inside. _Is this how Seekers kill?_

“I have no idea what is this and how it came about!” she wheezed, trying to get away from the wrath of the Pentaghast. She might have left some hair in the woman’s grip, but this worried her least. “Do you think I would hide it if I knew? There... my squad was there too!” Tairinn’s eyes flew wide open and redhead hid a gasp behind her gloved hand at the sight of the black pools circled with mute golden irises. Those were not the eyes of a simple human.

The Seeker scoffed and swung at the Templar but just before her armored hand collided with Tairinn’s face, the Left Hand intercepted it. “Cassandra, that is enough,” she said forcefully. “We need her. Alive.”

Seeing that execution is delayed for some time, Trevelyan tried to pull herself together and exhaled nervously. She somehow managed to get into the very middle of the impending apocalypse, _again_ , only this time it didn’t feel local. _Blown up_ , she shuddered, _who can hold so much power and how?_ But these were the questions the likes of the Seeker would have to answer and Tairinn… Well, she’d always been the one for practicality. Two more deep breath to center the mind and she asked the redhead, who, despite playing the good one for now, had clearly been in charge of the whole ordeal, “What now?”

“Tell us what you know.” The Templar stared at her in silent desperation. All she knew about the tragedy had been told to her by these two and they clearly wanted to hear something else. “What do you remember at least?”, the woman amended rolling her shoulders gracefully, not quite threatening, but showing the hilt of the dagger, hidden in the folds of her chainmail. _Burned from the inside or bled out from cut throat then._

“We… Oh Maker...” a new pang of pain shot through Tairinn’s palm and she squeezed it, grimacing, to prevent the pain shock from knocking her out. “The squad from Her Last Word, Wycome. We were summoned to guard the Conclave. Arrived to Jader by sea, from there went to the Temple.” The memories rose from the depths of Templar’s mind obediently, faces and places and small bits of talks… “We encountered apostates who had attacked us when they saw emblems on our armor on the second day. Three fought to death, the fourth was gone, no traces." Every phrase came out of her mouth with a wheeze, but she fought the weakness and went on. "The spell trail ended at the pentacle drawn on the stone. Most likely, he had used some kind of ritual. Black robes, pointy, never saw these before. I offered to stay to make a copy, but we were running late by that point.” 

“So the armor is yours.” The redhead nodded thoughtfully and watched Tairinn over once again. “We’ve been thinking you had taken it off someone.”

“Then check the lists,” the Templar snapped halfheartedly. “I am the Knight-Lieutenant of Her Last Word Monastery, Wycome, Tairinn’s the name. Or you can just try to boil my blood some more,” she stole a glance at the Seeker at her back, “I’m sure it’ll be enough evidence of my ties to the Order.”

“It's all is not important now!” The Pentaghast banged the fist against the wall, making the soldiers take a step back. For all her edginess, the woman seemed a bit placated by Tairinn’s hidden reproach. “What happened at the Conclave?” she asked, not softer, but without so much killing intent in her voice. _Bless the Maker for small miracles_ , the Templar thought, relieved, before continuing.

“We arrived there on the second day, on Monday. Made camp, left the horses, reported for duty,” looking up at the Left Hand, Trevelyan waved her shackles for emphasis, “I have no idea, if it’s supposed to be this way here, but the place was just overtaken with lyrium! The song was so powerful, especially on the lower floors. I reported to the Captain. They are really dead, aren’t they?” Tairinn turned away abruptly, or tried to, hiding the tears of pain, both physical and emotional, “...and, when our watch was over, the squad went back to the camp while I and my disciple Aidan went to find the source of the song. After Kirkwall...” she shook her head, letting the hair fall down and cover her face.

“But the Templars here said nothing about the contamination. I’ve got no reports of the song,” the Pentaghast replied doubtfully, “It would interfere with their abilities.” Still she seemed to quiet down some more and was leaning on the wall now instead of looming over. _Progress._

“Increased sensitivity," Tairinn said wearily with a self-conscious shrug. “I can hear the lyrium in small quantities, crystals even, and there was much more of the stuff. I'm sure there was.”

“So, you found something?” The Left Hand was all business now and even though her seemingly placid fasade didn’t betray anything, her light voice cracked a bit. _Frightened. She knows what can happen._

“No?” she answered, unsure. “We patrolled the corridor when Aidan heard a noise. Shouts. We ran to the rescue.” Tairinn’s wounded hand exploded with pain again, then the land trembled noticeably, once again trying to knock the Templar down to the floor. She hadn’t managed to suppress a groan, but continued in a hoarse voice, “Doors to the chambers, oh. We tried to open them, but they had been locked from the inside. I gave Aidan my shield and knocked the lock out with my shoulder, and then... No,” she shook her head again. “I don’t remember... Only…”

“What?” The Seeker started pacing again, her hand unconsciously rubbing the long scar on the jaw. “Only what?”

“Magic. The place was filled with it. Dark and bloody, twisted and unspeakably evil.” Heavy silence fell over the dungeon, interrupted only by Templar’s pained and ragged breathing and soft creaking of the magic across her hand. “I tried to negate it, but I wasn’t enough. Something shattered and I fell. Then nothing.” Trevelyan tried to gather her thoughts. Something escaped her, shrouded in emotions and words, something important.

“Leliana, go to the forward camp and make sure the Chancellor does no harm. We will come later,” the Pentaghast commanded sharply and turned back with a stiff nod, as the Left hand of the Divine moved to the exit without so much as a sound.

Still unsure, Tairinn stifled a pained moan and crowed at her back, “The woman in white. She said I won’t survive the place and pushed me away.”

"What woman?" the Seeker asked suspiciously. Trevelyan squinted at her. _Not surprised, huh?_

“Don’t know. It’s hard to see the face when you are burning alive.” She remembered it now, the flames licking her skin, eating her flesh away, digging into her bones. It was everywhere, unstoppable and unyielding, punishing and cruel. Unreal, was it? “Everything was burning and she held out her hand to me and the fire was gone. She said I can’t stay and then - nothing.”

Redhead left right then, leaving the Seeker to watch the prisoner for a while. Pentaghast’s brows were knitted as the woman stood in front of Tairinn deep in thoughts. _Oh just kill me swiftly_ , she prayed silently, preparing for the inevitable, but the Seeker surprised her. Apparently, decided on something, she sat down and began undoing the shackles, trying to avoid touching the glowing wound.

“What ... what really happened?” the Templar asked in a hushed voice, still shocked to be alive after she had exhausted her usefulness.

“It's easier to show once,” Nevarran muttered, tying Tairinn’s wrists with a simple rope,  and helped her to stand up. _The fuck is going on_ was ringing in Templar’s head as they silently went out through the heavy iron reinforced door and, following a short corridor, climbed the stairs leading to the… hall?

“We are in the Chantry.” Tairinn was surprised when she really shouldn’t be. With all these talks and both Hands of the Divine present and mention of the Chancellor they really couldn’t be anywhere else. _Great, more fanatics ahoy_ , she sighed, bemused.

With a grim “ugh” her companion headed for the exit from the old building. As soon as the doors opened, daylight blinded Trevelyan, making her cover her too used to darkness of the dungeon and painfully sensitive to the light eyes. The Seeker soldiered on, dragging the captive along by the elbow through what seemed to be a small pilgrimage stop village covered in snow, when a sharp panicked cry reached them.

“Lieutenant, Maker take me, is that really you?” Turning towards the source of voice the Templar couldn’t restrain a sigh of relief. Limping and covered with wounds and burns but still alive Darius hurried along the path leading somewhere deep into the settlement. He was leaning heavily on a fragile albino’s frame, but Ianthe herself was completely unscratched.

“Holy havens, you're alive!” Bursting out of Cassandra's weakened by the surprise grasp, Tairinn rushed to them, but just a couple of steps later collapsed on the snow, heaving through the gritted teeth, and curled up in a ball, squeezing painfully throbbing hand between her legs.

The sky darkened and even with her eyes closed the woman could see acidic flashes, followed by the roar that came from somewhere high in the mountains. Someone's cold but genthe hands touched her and burning agony began to weaken, subsiding. Magic, cut from the Fade by another Templar's negation, curled in Tairinn's palm like a sleepy cat and hid in the uneven edges of the new wound till its time comes again.

“I am not alone. Even As I stumble on the path With my eyes closed, yet I see The Light is here.” A second pair of hands brought a flask to Tairinn’s lips and she obediently took a sip, silently hoping this one was not one of Darius’ most potent brews. She needed to be in the right mind for what was to come.

“Thank you, Ianthe,” she said in a much stronger voice when negation settled, finally able to open her eyes. Despite his own wounds, Antivan, who was more gray than tan now from exhaustion and blood loss, dropped on one knee, helping Tairinn to get up from the frozen ground. He was a stark contrast to Ianthe’s usual calmness, pupils blown wide, lips chapped and brown curly hair in complete disarray. He was scared shitless, so much Tairinn knew with absolute certainty.

“I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but the Captain and the others... they are dead.” He sounded lost as his fingers squeezed the empty phylactery on his neck tightly. “So much death. The explosion destroyed everything for miles around the Temple, and then _this_ ,” he raised his filled with burning hatred eyes skyward, “appeared. Breach they call it. There are lesser holes that lead to the Fade all around and they’re crawling with demons. I feel them. If it were not for Ianthe, and I would have died up there too,” he said, gratefully touching the shoulder of the red-eyed woman, who was examining the ropes on Tairinn's wrists.

The albino squinted thoughtfully and turned to the Seeker. “Truly, the Maker has called you, just as He called me, To be a Light for your People.” The Nevarran was watching Ianthe with bewilderment, clearly not getting the hint. With a hoarse nervous laugh Darius shook his head, muttering something about insufferable women, his hands raising instinctively to defend from Lita’s punch that had never came.

“It’s the first time I've heard of someone's innocence being declared this way,” Seeker said with a sigh into the uncomfortable silence and, taking a short dagger from her belt, cut the ropes on her prisoner’s hands.

“Ianthe is a Chanter, that’s the only way she speaks,” Trevelyan explained, rubbing her wrists to accelerate blood flow. “Thanks. I guess I’m not really used to being the captive.”

“It doesn’t mean that I unconditionally believe that you had nothing to do with  it,” Nevarran snapped, her eyes flashing. “Ugh, for all I know you could as well organize it and just get caught in the middle.”

“Lieutenant? Are you accused of something?” Darius asked in surprise, flopping down onto the tree stump sticking out from under the snow and straightening his bandaged right foot. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the resident troublemaker in our team!” The joke fell flat as there weren’t many of the said team left alive.

“Of blowing up the Conclave with this thing, no more, no less,”  the woman smiled crookedly and waved her left hand. _At least it stopped hurting_ , she said to herself, watching green sparks fly from the tear on her skin.

“That’s bullsit!” the Antivan exclaimed angrily at the Seeker, puffing up like a disturbed hedgehog, “Lieutenant couldn’t do it, no way! I’ve known her for nearly seven years! We all supported the Conclave, Lady Seeker, and Tairinn has too much love for humanity for such, such…” He flailed at the loss of words.  “We gave our vows. Our job is to protect people, not to deprive them of their only chance at peace!”

“You are Templars,” the woman said haughtily. “It won’t be surprising at all that by coming to Ferelden you will support one of the sides of war. Your own.”

 

All three Templars gave the Seeker stares of mild disgust, making her take a few steps back. Cassandra Pentaghast was ready to see guilt, or some other kind of acknowledgement of their relation to the explosion, but not this straightforward, stubborn indignation aimed at her of all people!

“What for?” The captive regarded her with a raised brow. The thin line of an old scar crossing it shifted like a question mark and, judging by woman’s smug face, that was the effect she’d been hoping for. “We’re neither sectants, nor we’re fanatics. I don’t know about the Order here, but Revered Mother Nita never let us close our eyes to the real meaning of the Chant of Light. We,” she stared Cassandra down, straightening her spine and the Seeker suddenly noticed their height difference, “we respect our mages, Seeker Pentaghast, and won’t do them harm while there’s still a chance. We're not Meredith, we protect.”

“And, may it be noted,” Darius sprung from his place, staggering but fierce and clenching his fists, “we’ve done our fair share to stop this shitstorm before it blew out! I pleaded Revered Mother to send us to Kirkwall myself and we’ve been hiding in those sewers like rats, trying to lead as many as we could from the Gallows! But where Seekers were when Meredith was butchering mages? Where were you all when that crazy bitch murdered my Alessa?” The man was shaking violently, still holding on the empty phylactery like it was the last thing that kept him sane.

The Lieutenant crossed the distance between her and the man in two swift steps and pulled him in, letting his head fall against her shoulder. “Darius, breathe. It’s enough,” she whispered gently, cradling him in her arms. She just stood there, letting the man take his time, and stroked his messy brown hair with unharmed hand, completely oblivious to the audience that started to gather around the four. Some people stared at the woman with hatred and disgust, but some were shaking their heads at Cassandra in disapproval.

“We needed this war no more than you, Seeker.” She didn’t look at Cassandra as she spoke, her gaze fixated on the infernal vortex up in the mountains. “ But it seems my choices are limited. How can I be of use?”

“Help us close the Breach,” Nevarran flinched at how small her own voice sounded. “That’s the most important thing now.” She too turned to watch it, shimmering with deadly light and spitting fragments of something dark out of its depths again and again. “It is connected to the mark on your hand in some way, so, as long as Breach grows, so does the mark. We assume it can be used against _this monstrosity_ before it grew enough to consume the world.”

The Templar nodded and slowly pushed still clinging to her man away. “If it grows, we must get there before it gets to my heart, no one survives that. Seems like I’m dead till midnight falls one way or another.” While Cassandra cringed from such easy and matter of factly acceptance, Lieutenant beckoned albino girl closer and nearly gave the Antivan over to her. “Stay here and help any way you can. There must have been many wounded, so, Darius, you know what to do. Ianthe, perhaps the Chantry might use your presence. Morals are as important as ever now.”

“Giving orders already?” Cassandra shook her head, taking the woman by the elbow and leading her away from worried Templars. The crowd that had gathered, parted, giving Tairinn a chance to take a closer look at the village.

 

It was truly small, two levels, not more than four streets on each, with an old Chantry building at its center. It looked like at least some part of it had been carved directly in the stone of the mountain, giving the place the aura of fundamental gravity. The snow was ever present, covering narrow streets, sloping roofs and some stubborn spruces that huddled at the outskirts of the place, where the thick smoke puffed from the chimney of what might as well be the tavern or the alchemist’s laboratory.

Tairinn prayed for the second: for all Darius’ borderline dangerous views towards medicine, the man was undoubtedly gifted and could work miracles if given enough resources and encouragement. Even though her own time had been on the countdown since the explosion, Ianthe stayed with the man and Trevelyan hoped with all her being the albino archer would be there to help him not to lose the will to live while there still were people in need of his talents.

The silence stretched and when two women passed the gates of the village and started up the road towards the outpost crawling with panicking soldiers, the Templar answered finally, “The Captain is dead. They’re my responsibility now, what else you expected me to do?” They went on.

One outpost, another… They were climbing higher and higher into the wilderness, barely touched by human hand in ages. Here and there people were sitting on the cold ground, wounded, catatonic, dying. Chantry folk who happened not to be of much importance to be at the Temple, were hurrying to tend everyone they could reach, some were collecting bodies and covering them with fabric, preparing pyres or chanting.

Tairinn took her time to watch the Nevarran, who was walking forward purposefully, barely sparing her companion more than a stray glance. With emotions under control, Templar regarded her captor’s back neutrally. _Might have some complaints against Seekers, but when in Ferelden, do as Fereldans do_ , she thought and tried for a peaceful approach. “Still think all this was my doing?”

“Only the time will show,” the Seeker responded right away, dodging another piece of slimy grime that fell from the sky. _Was she waiting for me to strike a conversation? Still tries to catch me on lies?_ “Most of us lost someone in the explosion and people need someone to blame,” the woman said with a wince. _Ah, so much for common sense._

“Good,” Tairinn retorted grimly, “so they chose me. Why am I not surprised?” The sky, dark and heavy with unshed power of the Fade, rumbled above them, preparing to spit out new wave of otherwordly trash yet again and Trevelyan stiffened, seeing as the edge of the scar she got in Hercinia not even two weeks ago that peeked from under her brace, shimmered slightly.

“Because no one else survived which leaves you the only suspect. At least for now.” One more outpost and another dozen of fabric-wrapped corpses later the Seeker sighed tiredly and stopped to look Tairinn in the eyes. “I know we started on an unfriendly note...”

“Freaking understatement of a century,” the Templar groaned, feeling a stab of pain get through the negation casted by Ianthe, and moved the sleeve up, knowing already that she won’t like the view. With a new pulse of the vortex, _Breach_ , the hole in Tairinn’s palm grew again and with a soft hiss connected with still unhealed cut. A wave of emerald light disappeared under her armor, prickling at the skin and extending the damage nearly to the elbow, if the new pain was anything to go by.

Trevelyan stilled, concentrating. The skill honed through years of meditations and training, answered her call readily, bubbling up around her left hand like some sort of invisible shield, breaking the connection between the mark and the hole in the sky again. For all it was worth, Tairinn had never thought one day she’ll have to use the Sphere of Annulment on her own body, but...

“There will be a trial. I can promise no more.” The Seeker broke her concentration, making her face the harsh reality again.

“Maa, this is much more than I could hope for.” Tairinn replied with badly hidden sarcasm and moved onto the next set of uneven stairs, cut right into the mountain. She had lost count to them long ago as she lost the count of the dead bodies lying along the path. _Is it selfish to still hope to live another day after so many didn’t?_

 

The women crossed a frozen river in grim silence and Tairinn tried very hard not to pay attention to the way the soldiers watched her. Hateful. Contemptuous. Afraid. _Oh, girls and boys,_ she mused, _if only you could know, you’d kill me right away._ All the way through another gates, over the icy mirror of the crystalline water, through the increasing body count _the Seeker leads the monster closer to its own pyre. How fitting._ Trevelyan snickered darkly, watching her hands as they went, but instead of bruised skin and green light she only saw blood that had always been there, seeping under the fingernails, hiding in the lines on her skin.

The Voice raged under the thin failsafe of control that was left in the place of usual calmness and lazy cheap humor Tairinn used to wear as a mask. She had always been like this, was born like this: only able to cause pain, destruction and death, so maybe in a way she was to blame for what had happened too.

 _Never what Mother had wanted, too selfish, too straightforward, too strong where should obey and now only lies and secrets are left and Mother’s still getting worse. Marie, Ruth, Yenne, Dan, they came too close, made feel too much and died for it. Evelyn, Lita, Silas...Aidan - they all became too important, saved countless times and died for it._ Fates, if such nonsense was real, decided to go all out this time, erasing countless lives along with those Tairinn cherished, so maybe it was finally her time to die too, preferably stopping the apocalypse from happening in the process. _Is this how I atone for who I am?_

The Voice bellowed, hot and golden, scorching and black, but she couldn’t grasp a single word, centered on the all encompassing grief that felt like stone on her neck, all familiar and undefeatable since she the first day of her life.

Still, even through all this Tairinn had always been an opportunist, albeit unwilling one, but used to surviving just to spite the sounds in her head. The feeling of hopelessness retreated like tidal waters do, predictable but uncontrollable, and the woman inhaled sharply. She was broken and empty and lost, but she wasn’t the one who had caused this, tore the fucking skies apart and Maker knows how tapped into the Fade. Tairinn could rationalize now once lyriumless haze died down and pitch-black hatred subsided - she was the suspect, but also the key and she could help. That must be enough.

For the moment.

 

“My armor can cause us trouble,” the Templar thought out loud. “This war has affected these lands far more than most of the Marches and the fact that a member of the Order is accused of such crime…You’re painting a target on your back just by walking with me, Seeker Pentaghast, innit?” She chewed on her lower lip, muffling the words just enough for the other woman to rather guess than hear the question. “How bad is it?”

“People are scared and desperate, they don’t want to know who you are,” Nevarran grunted, once again moving away from the pool of muddy slime on her way. “They just want you dead. As for your connection to the Order, most see you for the first time now and they choose to stare at your hand.”

“Who cares for armor when it can be stolen.” Tairinn remembered redhead’s words, smiled crookedly with a nod and dropped onto her knees split second later just as a new emerald lightning tore through the sky, followed by the rattle of stones falling down like comets. The ground turned under their feet, but the Templar rolled instinctively, grasping another woman by the elbow, and pushed her away from the landslide. “Andraste’s h-holy knickers, that was wild!”, she grinned nervously, sitting up with caution near a broken spruce that stopped their fall.

The second warrior was silent, clutching at her shield, still staring at the place where she had been walking moments ago and where a deep hole opened up now. Tairinn stood slowly, not hiding a groan and gingerly moved closer to the edge to look down. “Whoa, impressive,” she whistled and turned to her companion, “Are you alright, Seeker?”

“Let’s drop the ranks for now. Call me Cassandra,” she said hoarsely and cleared her throat, hiding embarrassment. Clearly unused to such perception shifts, Pentaghast must have made a difficult decision and finally chose to cease hostility, even if for the sake of practicality. Tairinn offered her a hand, and the warrior accepted it, sealing an unspoken truce. “How's your hand?” she asked, rising up in one fluid movement.

“Ianthe’s negation didn’t dispel the mark, but it blocked most of the magical residue, effectively cancelling some of the pain,” Tairinn offered. She decided not to tell she’d replaced broken negation with the Sphere of Annulment for now. The skill was rare and hard to master, so even among her own rank barely every tenth Templar had precision control to produce the Sphere, so most preferred easy and temporary negation. Something was prickling at her thoughts, the unformed idea that made her keep her full name to herself earlier and prevented from giving away more details now, hiding her identity.

Luckily, it was a common practice for the Order members to go by given name and rank only. Of course some still were known for their families as Tairinn did, but here, in Ferelden, the chances to be recognized dropped significantly, letting her become simply one of the many and letting her family stay undisturbed by the Seekers and Chantry.

Once out of the withdrawal’s grasp, Trevelyan did not welcome the thoughts of dying, but she came here prepared: if she won’t send a letter, a very special letter, to the Monastery in three weeks time, another one would be given to Ethan, leaving him to deal with the family. It had been another one of Tairinn’s backup plans that had been in action since she gave her vows, and she knew that she hadn’t been the only one with such precautions made. Ivar would be notified soon and Evelyn’s death will be a heavy blow on him, without a doubt. He’ll tell Lita’s sister and her brothers will receive a letter too. Silas and Aidan didn’t have anyone beside the squad, so, as long as she and Darius live, it would be their job to remember. Ianthe...

“I was lucky Ianthe was there.” the Templar didn’t hide a small sad smile as she went, following Cassandra closely in her tracks. “Her survival though is not surprising at all.”

“How so?” Nevarran threw away a glowing shard that got into her hair during the landslide with a grimace of disgust. Both women were smeared with grime and mud in equal proportions from head to toes, looking like they were dumped into the dirt pit, but it cooled down as they climbed up and started to fall away in chunks.

Tairinn chiseled a bit from her chestplate with a fingernail and laughed. “At least this Fade puke has no magic in it! Wouldn’t want to start glowing or whatever it might do if it was.” After a grunt of agreement from the Seeker, who had been sniffling at her sleeve suspiciously, Tairinn put her hands behind her back and stretched, not bothering to slow down. “Here comes the funny bit, you know, Ianthe’s a Chanter. During all those years we know each other, and it’s almost seven now, she didn’t utter a single phrase that can’t be found in the Chant of Light.”

“Commendable dedication. And how did it help her?” Cassandra said absently and grabbed some snow. Hissing angrily she began to rub it on her brace with such ardor, Tairinn barely held back a snicker.

“I’d love to know that too.” Trevelyan smiled, shaking his head, and decided not to comment of Seeker’s weird behaviour. “I've seen a lot of shit that would kill anyone, but not our dear archer. Where did you find them?”

Some strands of dirty hair immediately moved into her line of sight and all efforts to tuck it behind her ear went in vain. Tairinn simply rolled her eyes and kept going, deciding to shave her head the way Lita did or at least take some time to cut this dark chestnut mess into something more acceptable for battles. If she would survive, of course. And many fights awaited Tairinn in the future, she was already starting to feel the familiar sensation like hair on her hands standing on end, the taste of copper on the base of her tounge, the whispers of the Voice in her head. Yes, many battles lie ahead and she would be at the forefront as always, just as any Templar should.

“They came by themselves.” Cassandra stared ahead in determination, already pushing for a new outpost that had just shown up from behind of the pile of stone rubble. “Well, the girl dragged that Antivan to one of the outposts literally on her back. From there the soldiers brought them to Haven, but you’re right, there was not a scratch on her.”

"That’s how it usually happens. This _girl_ took a direct blow in her midsection from one of Meredith cronies and guess what.” Tairinn sighed bitterly and quickened her pace, not really wanting to give her companion a chance to see her tears again. “That's just it didn’t save others. Aiden was only thirteen, his Vigil was planned for the next Wintermarch…”

“I'm sorry about your team,” Seeker’s voice was genuinely sympathetic, yet full of her own sorrow. _So many lost… What for?_ _And yet I lost much less than you,_ she wanted but didn’t say because such pain cannot, can never and shall never be compared. _Any life is sacred, no life is cheap. It comes with time, this understanding. For some, like Aidan, it never comes._

They kept it to themselves, each carrying the burden of their own emotions, losses and hearts broken by life itself. The world around them continued to shatter with every lightning, every thunder and quake that the Breach threw at them aplenty. The pain never came and Tairinn was unsure of how long the Sphere of Annulment would be able to shield the mark, elbow long and nearly bone deep in the palm section now, before the Fade tears this dam to shreds.

The world turned green and faded into blackness for a second when they finally approached another outpost. As Cassandra shouted for frightened soldiers to open the gates, the Templar touched her shoulder and asked with cautious interest, “How did I survive the explosion?”

The Seeker simply shrugged and closed her hazel eyes. “No one knows. It destroyed the Temple, and when the soldiers finally got through the debris, the Breach kind of threw you up.” The woman even did quote marks in the air for emphasis. “They said they had seen a glowing silhouette of a woman behind you, but whose, no one knows. Again.”

The gate wings, skewed with all the earthquakes and meteors falling from the sky, began to screech open agonizingly slowly and both warriors bashed, helping the weakened men open the way. As the gap between the planks of wood became wide enough, they squeezed through and onto the bridge that had clearly seen better times. Cassandra grasped Tairinn’s right hand urgently and tugged her forward, speaking as she went, “Valley is a wasteland now, just… be prepared. We’ll be there in a few.”

She tried to tell something else, but her voice was stolen by wind as the Breach shuddered and grew in size, spitting out a huge pulsating comet that collided into the rocks right under the bridge, sending shockwaves of destruction all around. The stone shards sprayed from the interaction point and support beams collapsed with deafening rumble, carrying Tairinn, Cassandra and soldiers who had no chance to run away down to the frozen water.


	9. A Friend of a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You never know who you can meet at the outskirts of the apocalypse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY.  
> Really, it took me more than a week to rework this chapter into something more readable than 2,5k draft. And Solas is such a jerk with his iambic pentameter. Good thing I was a theory of literature nerd it the high school, so be prepared for some poetic "who's got bigger staff" in later chapters :D  
> Anyway, chapter 9 is out and while I'm slithering away to get drowned in action scenes of 10th, have fun here! Comments are much appreciated as always cause most of the time I have no idea where this is going (even though I have TDH drafted up to 39th chapter).

Tairinn pushed away from the crumbling stones with all her might, flipping mid fall to cushion the collision with the surface of the frozen river. It helped, but only so much and instead of hitting the ice face first, she landed on her feet and rolled away from bridge remains, earning some bruises and new scratches in the process. Trevelyan’s breath came out in unsteady gasps as she searched the rubble for survivors and she didn’t bother to hide her relief when the dust settled, showing Cassandra’s broad frame rise from the debris. The woman got a new cut on her forehead, but was otherwise unharmed.

The soldiers were not that fortunate though. Two bodies were sticking out from under support beam, crushed by its weight, the third one, so young he could barely be sixteen, was lying on the ice near Cassandra, clearly out and bleeding profusely. The Seeker took a step towards him, but her eyes moved to watch something behind Tairinn with alarm. Nevarran only began to open her mouth in warning when the Templar felt a familiar heaviness in her chest and bolted.

Her jump took her back to the pile of stone and closer to Cassandra, whose sword was already out of the scabbard and swaying dangerously like scorpion's tail before attack. It was aimed at the interaction point, where the shards of the meteor had hit the ice and now the surface began to darken, bubbling and ready to burst. The ice around the pool of grime shifted, distorted with something trying to break from underneath.

“Demons,” Tairinn hissed, feeling their claws break into the real world from the Fade through these bottomless black blotches of rotting frozen water.

“Stay behind!” the Seeker ordered and sprinted towards still forming demon with a low growl. Her attacks were swift but Trevelyan could already sense more darkness seep through the opening, gut wrenching disgust and hatred rising with it. Cassandra was fast, but not that fast, so Tairinn was on her own now, without her shield and sword lost in the explosion, defenseless.

The feeling of impending fight increased tenfold and she dropped on her knees, searching for something, anything to use as a weapon. The Voice sang high and triumphant when the Templar felt the hilt of the sword in the pile of shattered boxes and sharp edged stones. She pulled it out from under the rubble and cursed, seeing that the blade's tip had been broken, but even this sword was better than nothing. She swung it, testing its balance, and grabbed a relatively intact cover of one of the boxes with left, glowing hand. Tairinn turned around, fast and collected, intending to help Cassandra just as the second demon materialised and faced her nose to nose, already creeping closer.

The creature, _wraith_ , she noted absently, must have sensed her intent and released its claws with a mind numbing shriek that cut to the bone. It striked, trying to bury its weapon in Tairinn's unprotected face, but she raised her improvised shield just in time to counter. The wraith retreated, hissing. Tairinn growled and slid on the mudded ice to the side, following it. The claws snapped again, inches from her head. Attack. Fall back. Blow. Counter. Hiss. Gulp. Snap!

The woman stabbed the demon straight into its gaping mouth with effort, piercing the wraith with the uneven tip of her broken sword. It fell to the ground, howling, its form already dispersing into a shapeless gray puddle. The liquid stilled quickly, icing over in the cold and only someone’s half-digested old boot was sticking out, reminding of the nature of the stuff.

Moving with practiced efficiency, Tairinn rushed to help Cassandra, but she had already finished her attacker and was watching the Templar with cautious suspicion. _Oh, not again!_

“Drop your weapon,” she barked, and the Marcher lowered her sword and a piece of wood that was a laughable replace for her shield the ground. She knew that arguing won’t gain her any favors, but her compliance with Seeker’s order didn’t by any chance mean she didn’t see its ridiculousness. _A broken piece of badly sharpened iron and a box lid_ , Tairin thought derisively, _do you really think this can do much? Or_ , she mused with a hidden smile, _you do get that I can make any trash to be my weapon? A compliment then._

Still, if the Seeker would be the only one with any means of protection, Tairinn’s chances of survival could dwindle significantly. Cassandra was skilled from what Trevelyan had gathered, but she was already tired and wouldn’t stand against more than one attacker for long. More so, her death would kind of defeat the whole purpose of climbing to this Maker knows where. All this considered, Tairinn straightened and rolled her stiff shoulders, her scarred brow once again a mocking question mark aimed at her companion.

Cassandra apparently realised the absurdity of her demands in the conditions that Breach had been dictating and cleared her throat, looking away. “Ugh, take it with you. It is a bad idea to leave you unarmed, especially now. You came willingly, so I should consider at least that.”

“Maa, I'd do the same if I were you,” Tairinn nodded, not bothering to hide a smirk that clashed with her words badly and crouched to pick up her sword, covered with a thick layer demonic slime, from the river surface. “Or maybe not. My captives usually don't need any weapons, so I wouldn't know.”

“Let's go already, we are off the track,” Cassandra harrumphed and moved on without further ado. And if there was a slight limp to her step, Tairinn decided not to comment on that, simply taking Seeker’s left instead.

 

Cassandra was thinking. Of all the things that could go wrong, everything did in the past two days. The Divine was dead, hundreds of innocent people perishing along with her, the war raged even more furiously now with no means to thwart it… And only her captive’s offer of help and surprisingly easy acceptance of her rushed orders were somewhat comforting in this mess.

Carefully climbing the stairs that had been cut into the mountain ages ago and were now crumbling under her heavy steps, the Seeker was throwing sidelong glances at the Templar. She walked cautiously, constantly assessing the danger, and each of her movements was clearly measured. The wind ruffled her dark hair, making it obscure her view, but she swept it back with practiced ease. Still, she seemed to fall out of habit of doing it some time ago and now it made the woman a little twitchy to Cassandra's eye.

Strangely, her left temple looked like it had been shaven for other reason than practicality: most of the very short hair, a week or two old stubble, was gleaming white in bright evening sunlight. Gray hair? But the Templar looked twenty-five, twenty six at most.

Manly, broad shouldered and tall, taller than Cassandra herself by two or three inches, Lieutenant Tairinn, if that was truly her name, reminded the Seeker her own reflection in the mirror. The dark skin stood out sharply against the snow-covered landscape and those luminous amber eyes, staring at the path ahead with certainty and something akin to challenge, could rather suit a night time creature than a human being.

Maker, the woman was strange, but she was also intriguing and Cassandra felt being lured by her strangeness. A compassionate comrade and caring friend she seemed to be to her survived teammates merged seamlessly with sarcastic fighter who had clearly been through a lot. It made the Seeker wonder if the Templar truly was what she claimed to be, but mentions of Kirkwall and the events of 9:37 sounded legit, especially with that Antivan’s words confirming her backstory.

Cassandra haven’t heard much about Her Last Word, but she planned to dig some information on the Monastery if they survive and manage to close the Breach. Templars who work with mages? Who save mages from other Templars? That seemed to be either an unprecedented case, or not that well thought out lie, and Cassandra couldn’t tell what option she preferred more. Cassandra Pentaghast had always been unwieldy when it came to the changes in her perfectly logical world.

 

Her musings were cut short by a group of demons that appeared in her line of sight as soon as both women crossed another slope. “There’s a shade,” she heard Tairinn say and unstrapped a flask from her belt.

“Here, take this,” she grumbled, dropping a healing potion into Templar’s hands. “We are on our own for now.”

The shade, emerald green and translucent just like the mark on Tairinn’s hand, was circling half formed wraith. The creature was shimmering slightly, which meant barrier. _Troublesome,_  Tairinn thought, flexing her fingers on the hilt of her weapon. “Thanks, Cass.”

They both froze for a second as a pet name slipped from Tairinn's lips. “Sorry, that's a habit,” the Templar recovered not so smoothly as she would like, cursing her big mouth inwardly, and tried to change the subject, hiding a wince, “Where are the main forces?”

“Most are in the forward camp,” Cassandra chose to ignore the slip for now, too fixated on the enemy’s movements, “and some are trying to clear the way to the Temple for us. To what's left of it.”

The warriors looked up at the base of the acid green vortex, still rotating slowly in the sky, that was disappearing somewhere over the mountain tops. The pulses were less frequent now, but each one brought twice of the destruction, breaking the snow covered peaks and giving way to more and more demons.

“Watch out! They found us! This one shoots from afar,” Tairinn hissed and pushed Cassandra away from a magical bolt of green substance that was already flying towards them from below. Her retaliation was swift: a precisely aimed Negation unwoven magical ties that held the bolt in one piece. It fell apart in a bundle of harmless sparkles, leaving the opening for Templar's attack.

“I'll get this one, deal with the wraith!” she called out to the Seeker and rushed towards the shade, already hidden behind an azure barrier. It thrummed with power of the Fade and would make any warrior’s attacks futile, but Tairinn was no simple warrior. “Come on, fucker,” she bared her teeth and ducked away from the next shot instead of taking it on the shield. The wraith spun gracefully in the air, following enemy's movements, but Tairinn didn't try to get away from it, no, she was closing in. With another roll she appeared right under demon’s green from and slashed its glowing flesh aslant.

The knowledge, collected carefully from lessons, sparrings and books in Monastery and taught by mages of Wycome Circle didn't fail her. Barrier, strong and unyielding for direct attacks, was much weaker if pierced from underneath. It took Tairinn great pains and not a single year to learn how to roll and duck in her heavy armor, but at the same time it made her one of the best when it came to fighting enemies, humans and demons alike, who used magical barriers. In the end it all came to one simple rule: they always try to protect their hearts and heads, forgetting about their own feet.

The wraith screeched wildly and made an attempt to flee, pushing more power in the broken barrier at the same time, but the Templar was already on her feet. She jumped, bringing herself closer again and growled in frustration when the missing tip of her sword should have sliced the demon in halves.  As the creature stilled, preparing to spit out a new projectile, Tairinn sent the demon back into the Fade with one swift kick in its glowing gut.

“You sure know your job.” Cassandra finished her opponent too and approached Tairinn to clasp her shoulder. It felt good, to know she wasn't alone in this, even after all hell broke loose. Tairinn hummed in agreement, wiping splashes of demonic goo off her face and winked at her companion.

“If you're sent out to work in the field, you either survive and adapt, or give the wolves something to chew on.” Her voice was muffled as she tried to scrub demonic remains from her cheek. “And as you can see, there's no wolves here.”

 

“Thanks the Maker,” Cassandra muttered and reached out to get a stone shard sticking out from a shallow cut on Tairinn's forehead. The woman stilled, letting the Seeker touch her face, but even though she still kept smiling toothily, her eyes were cautiously following Cassandra's fingers, apprehensive. She was scared, her pupils blown wide, encircled by the irises the color of molten gold and Cassandra must have recognized the cause of the tension because her stoic expression changed into almost guilty, vulnerable one.

She plucked the stone out gently and took a step back, holding both hands up in a placating gesture, letting Tairinn wipe the blood off her face. “It was not… right of me to use _that_ on you,” she said, “and I must apologize.”

“No,” the Templar interrupted her with a smile still plastered on her stiff lips, “really. We all do things that must be done and we can’t be proud of, innit? Been there too...”

There was a sad note to her voice, but she seemed to shake it off mentally. They stood in front of each other in the middle of the frozen nowhere, letting sharp mountain wind harass their unprotected faces, and there was something in Tairinn’s face, the mischievous glint in her eyes that held the Seeker on edge as she smiled wider, more alive this time. The woman approached her jauntily and slid a hand around Nevarran's waist as she leaned in to her ear and sing-songed, “...Cass!” Cassandra gasped in surprise and tried to swat Tairinn's hand away, but she had already jumped back, winked again, laughing softly, and took off downhill.

“Maker preserve me,” the Seeker muttered as she followed. The woman seemed strange before? Well, with every passing hour, every turn of a phrase she became more and more baffling. Serious and collected during the battle, she tended to turn each conversation they had into a joke or exercise in sarcasm, which reminded Cassandra of Leliana a bit in sarcasm part, but this Tairinn… She had been captured, shackled, interrogated, her team had been killed and body damaged by the explosion, leaving the Templar with no more no less but a magical mark on her hand, and still she managed to smile and be friendly to her very captor. _What have your life before Ferelden been like if you are unfazed by all this,_ the Seeker thought, watching her companion’s back as she jumped down on the stone rubble of an outpost, ruined by one of the comets, _what you've been through?_

A sudden noise that rattled through the crispy air turned her attention towards more pressing problems. Her fellow warrior stopped abruptly, staring up at the Breach with unfocused eyes, and flexed her fingers that were gripping the box lid tightly. Another rumble, mixed with the sound of clashing metal pierced the silence just as the Templar wondered in a whisper, “There's another Breach, smaller… Close?” She sounded unsure but Cassandra didn't have to guess, not really.

“That would be a rift, it lets demons in. Do you hear the fighting? We need to try to close it before we are overrun,” she explained hastily, turning around to find the source of all the racket. The echo did a good job of distorting the sounds, but Tairinn seemed to accept Seeker's words for their face value and pointed to the left, where the row of narrow stairs disappeared behind the ruin of the fortification.

“There,” she said with absolute certainty, “I can feel it.” The mark on her hand chose this time to spit out a mass of blinding sparks and with her peripheral vision Cassandra could see as Tairinn frowned and touched her wrist. _The mark must be growing again,_ she thought, _we need to hurry now._

“Let’s go, we need to help the fighters,” Cassandra urged and ran up the steps, ready to go into battle. Steady thuds behind her back told her that Tairinn had followed suit.

 

Jumping over the stones of the ruined wall, Tairinn landed onto a small platform littered with demonic remains still holding some residual magic. The place felt like all the Harrowings she managed combined went wrong, the power of Fade rolling in waves from… _Can I go home please,_ she moaned silently when her eyes met a twitching and furiously sparkling eleven feet tall slash in the fabric of reality. Acid green cut through the Veil was leaking with demons similarly to the way untreated and infected wound bled with pus, not giving a couple soldiers below it any chance of survival.

Suddenly the barrier sprung to life, shielding the two, and a mage stepped out on the battlefield, regal, calm and unmistakably apostate. Tairinn felt relief wash over her, because a mage, especially apostate, fighting on her side could be a real help in dealing with a lesser terror that was trying to escape in the real world from the Fade.

Unlike Circle mages, apostates could count only on their abilities and skills to survive, which made them agile, wary and always prepared to stand their ground against demonic temptation. They were unpredictable too and not used to working in tandem with Templars, but rare mages except those from Wycome Circles did. More so, apostates were hunted so if Tairinn entered the fight with Negation, the mage - _an elf but not dalish, no markings, ran from one of the Circles? -_ could interpret her attack as meant for him and bolt. No, Tairinn didn't need two enemies at once, so Negation would come later.

More sparks flew from her mark, not quite burning the skin, but letting her know it grew again. She felt it, damn it, with her hand reacting to the swift expanding of the rift, and she didn't like it one bit. It all flashed through Tairinn's head in a matter of seconds as she lifted her makeshift shield, but a flurry of red hair, crossbow bolts and even redder chest hair, that reminded her a little bit too much of one quite famous for his books and bad company choices dwarf, froze her in place. _What the demon is he doing here?_

“In, now!” Cassandra took a running start, throwing herself into the thick of the battle. Her taunt, a guttural cry, echoed in the mountains, attracting attention of demons, but the Templar did not move.

Strange sensation, the feeling of being connected to the Fade appeared suddenly, thin threads grasping Tairinn's cut through the Sphere of Annulment, licking her bones with fire, and it became the nudge that snatched her from the stupor. With a snarl she rolled, springing to her feet right in front of the elf,  and shielded him from the graze of demonic claws with her wooden lid. A screech tore through the air as razor-sharp claws split the improvised shield into halves, but Tairinn's sword immediately pierced the dark body of their owner. Without a second of delay, the woman rushed towards the wraith attacking a very young scout and cut off demon’s head with a precisely aimed blow.

Her pulse quickened as pulsation in the scar intensified, making Tairinn come for air sharply and then the mage was beside her, the barrier he had held for the dwarf and soldiers dropped as his scorching hot fingers grabbed Tairinn by the wrist. Before she snapped at him or snapped his neck, the mark moved. Aimed directly at the rift by the apostate's steady hand, it broke free.

The magic that was only trying to unite two sources before, was unleashed as the connection fell into place and Tairinn's world went dark. The power flowed through her like water through a bottomless vessel without lingering and no matter how hard she tried she could not stop it or even find its source.

“We need to close the rift till more come through!” Tairinn felt rather than heard the elf, his words drowned out by the angry, outraged Voice bellowing at her. It was crushing her will, stifling her panic at the unknown power rushing through her body and Tairinn rebelled against it, doing what she had always done best: she drew upon her skills.

“I negate!” came out in a strained cry and for a second she had an utmost awareness of the world around even without seeing it, knew every wrinkle in the Veil, felt every eon of magic coursing through her. It was the strangest sensation in Tairinn's life because now she had some understanding, albeit crooked, of how mages felt the world.

Then the connection tightened under the pressure of Tairinn's will, pulling her in, seeking to trap her in between of the two eyes of the Fade, staring right into her soul with passive judgement. She groaned and with final tug staggered back, ripping the threads out of the rift and severing them by a well placed Negation. A loud crack rumbled above the ruins, echoing for miles around and a miniature copy of the Breach collapsed, exploding with slime and more stone shards.

“So it _can_ close the rifts,” the bald elf mused as he turned to watch shimmering with outworldly light mark. His hot fingers reached for the edge of the wound, but Tairinn snatched her numb hand from him, choking at his words.

“So? And when we were sticking my hand into one…?” she stared down at him, unblinking, silently considering whether to punch him now or wait until he would relax around her. Although, truth be told, he clearly was not fazed by the emblem on her armor. _Confident or oblivious?_

“It could as well be torn or turned to ash,” the elf nodded, stroking the jaw, _wait WHAT is it at least animal_ , that was hanging on his neck like a pendant. His bright blue eyes were crinkling in a shadow of hidden smile. “But mark instead just sealed the rift for good. This type of magic I have never met…”

“It was Negation, dear apostate”, Tairinn answered in the same iambic pentameter grimly, shaking her head to clear elusive thoughts. “Can we speak like normal people please?” He smiled at her and to her surprise Trevelyan saw a shadow of respect on his face, unusually angular for an elf.

“So be it,” he nodded, “I have never seen this spell.”

“Are you even serious?” Tairinn closed her eyes and flailed helplessly, ignoring dwarven snorts and Cassandra's bewildered silence completely. _First Templar bard, now elven mage poet, what's next on the list? Dwarven rogue writer? Ah, yes, here he is,_ she thought, looking for a nearest wall to bang her head on. “Okay, listen, it was Negation, a Templar skill, not a spell. I am not-” she threw her hands in the air in exasperation, “-not a mage!”

“We got it, got it.” Cassandra sheathed her sword and put both hands on Tairinn's shoulders in attempt to calm the woman who clearly was on the verge of either freaking out or telling the mage to go where sun don't shine. “So, theoretically, can the Breach also be closed like this?” The answer to this question was to potentially decide the fate of the world as they knew it after all.

“Quite possible,” the elf inclined his head in agreement, his eyes still trained on Tairinn, waiting for her reaction. He didn't have to wait long.

 

“So you can speak not all ancient and noble! Maker's breath, we are saved!” She exclaimed in relief and patted Cassandra's right hand still lying on her shoulder joyfully. The Seeker stepped back immediately but noticed a small nearly hysterical smile playing on Tairinn's lips. “Let’s go stick my hand in the giant hole in the sky, my friends!” This woman's moods were changing faster than the sea for sure.

“What a glorious idea!” The dwarf, _who should not even be here anymore,_ seemed to catch the wind of where this all was going because he sauntered closer to Tairinn to introduce himself. She watched his approach with a mixed expression of joy and wistfulness, as if they were acquainted. _But it is impossible,_ the Seeker thought, just as the man shook the right hand that Tairinn extended readily and said, “Varric Tethras at your service, Corporal Lady. Long time no see!” Then he winked at shocked Cassandra who was blinking owlishly at them and bowed playfully.

“If introductions are in order, my name is Solas.” The elf nodded politely, but clearly disinterested.

Tairinn barely opened her mouth to say something as he squinted at the soldiers sitting at the farthest side of the ruin and left for them wordlessly. Some could think of him as rude for his abrupt departure, but Tairinn felt the base of minor healing spell already forming on the tips of his fingers, as he reached into the Fade and it answered his call readily. She would bet the man, _Solas,_ won't let anything distract him in the next couple of minutes, so she turned back to Varric.

“It’s Lieutenant now, Inky Fingers,” the smile he was met with and that nickname… there absolutely was a story between the two and Cassandra had an idea what this story could be. Kirkwall. Rebellion. This meant that Tairinn could know the Champion too and his whereabouts! But the Templar went on as if their meeting was just a friendly chat, not a short respite from the looming apocalypse. “I’d rather you use my name though since we’re somehow got neck deep in the shit together once more. Call me Tairinn.”  

Once again Cassandra felt tricked. Not the most patient person she was, she decided to take the matters in her own hands. “You know each other. How well?” she asked, inspecting their reactions closely. But Varric just shook his head, letting Tairinn take the lead.

“About the same you'll know someone you've been knee deep in shit and blood with, but barely had time to talk for more than ten minutes, Cass,” she answered carelessly, “I know Varric enough to feel safe with him covering me, but not enough to get most of Hawke family inside jokes. How's the bastard, by the way? He's been silent lately.” The last part was aimed at Varric again and the Seeker didn't miss how he threw a quick apprehensive glance in her direction.

Cassandra watched their banter with morbid fascination, forgetting about the Breach, the failed Conclave, the war. Of all people she questioned about Keren Hawke, Varric was the most talkative and now she could remember him saying something about a group of Templars fighting alongside the Champion, a few words in passing. On the one hand, it solidified Tairinn's legend even more, on the other though… The woman mentioned Hawke, implying she hadn't heard from him in a while. Did it mean they kept in touch before?  

The dwarf laughed humorlessly and, taking Tairinn by the right brace, pulled her in the direction opposite from where she and Cassandra came. “Last that I've heard he'd been herding his flock your way so you tell me,” he muttered nervously. “Did he get to you?”

“He came by the Monastery in 9:38 with Birdy, nearly gave Captain a stroke.” Tairinn frowned and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes to calm down. “She's dead, Varric. Lita and Silas too. And Dan was killed in 9:39. It's only me, Darius and Ianthe now.”

The dwarf's lips turned into a thin line and he looked away, giving the woman space. “I'm sorry, Lady,” he murmured gently, the honorific sounding more like a pet name now, “they we're good folks from what we've seen.”

“We'll grieve later if there'll be later for us.” Tairinn cleared her throat wetly and sighed, then rubbed the back of her head and shook it slightly. “Anyway, you asked about Beardy. I got a couple of letters in past years, nothing important, he just thought some kids from shitholes like Red Creek were better at our Circle then killed by mage hunters. One time we met Fen in Hercinia, I think he'd been mad at them again, haven't talked though. And about four months ago all three joined us at Nevarran border. That's it I think?”

“Well, shit,” was all Varric said cryptically before Solas joined them again and gestured at the ladder leading in the valley wordlessly. Cassandra contemplated asking the questions that were on the tip of her tongue, but even she felt the sombre mood that settled over as Tairinn glanced at all three of them, then at the Breach and muttered something unintelligible but most certainly obscene before turning sharply. They left the ruin shortly.

 

It was Solas who broke the oppressive silence once they got down the ladder and into the valley. Although his offhand comment about Tairinn's survival made her lowkey uneasy, Varric hurried to explain the elf was the one who had been blocking the mark from killing her while she had been out cold.

The woman stiffened and brought her glowing left hand closer to her face as they went. Squinting, she inspected the wound, trying to see its edges, but got nearly blinded by another series of sparks that came out of it with a pulse of the Breach.

“Maa, please accept my sincere gratitude then,” Tairinn blinked, rubbed her left eye that watered a bit and looked back at Solas doubtfully. The idea that some unknown mage had access to her _Templarly_ body for several hours was quite unsettling. She might have trusted those from the Circle of Wycome, well, she had even let Keren mess with her health with his Restoration not once, but those were people she went to voluntary and it was the main difference. Trevelyan could be much more liberal than most of the Order all she wanted, but trusting anyone blindly was a way of suicidal Templar only.

Still, even if Solas noticed the skepticism in her voice, he chose to ignore it in favor of watching the clouds pooling around the Breach. She huffed and looked away too, jumping over the fallen tree. There was no point in shooting death glares after it all was said and done.

“Are you from one of the Circles?” she asked instead, wondering where could the man come from. If bare face of his was any indication, the man should be an apostate, not a free elf as some of the Dalish she knew called themselves. On the other hand, he barely had any resemblance to elves at all except the ear shape. Too tall, too wiry and broad framed, Solas could be easily mistaken for a human and it puzzled Tairinn. She had been travelling for more than a decade and saw many of his kind, only... “You don't exactly look Dalish to me.”

“I am none of them.” He shook his head with his ice blue eyes still trained on the Breach. “My path lies elsewhere.”

“Whatever pleases,” the Templar acquiesced with a shrug, not really in the mood for pushing the man that seemed content on letting her know as little as possible. _Sensible decision in these times_ , she thought.

“An unusual reaction for the Templar.”

“Dark times demand unusual choices,” she replied nonchalantly, but slowed a bit, letting the elf pass ahead. No matter how peaceful their exchange had been, she would feel safer seeing his hands. The ability to feel magic, of course, could hardly fail her, but the lack of a lyrium in Tairinn’s blood and constant threat to her life made the Voice louder, making it difficult to focus on really important things.

 

“Varric, I'm certainly grateful that you helped us up here…” Ten minutes later Cassandra seemed to finally decide to bring the issue up, but was unsure of how to proceed. _Interesting_. The dwarf hummed joyfully in response and Tairinn had to stifle a laugh. This man had never been the one to make things easier and now he was clearly set on messing with the Seeker. She sighed and slowed her pace a little to walk by man’s side. “Isn’t it a good time for you to return to Kirkwall?”

“And leave you alone to deal with this shit? Well, Seeker, I might have thought about it, but no thank you. Not when Lady is here too. Misfits must stick together, don’t we?” he asked and grinned at Tairinn who nodded solemnly before hiding her snicker behind an unmistakably fake cough.

“We can…” Cassandra opened her mouth to snap at him, but dwarf’s expression turned grim as he shushed her by simply raising a brow.

“You haven’t seen what is happening in the valley. Your soldiers won’t hold for much longer.” He stroked his crossbow gently, looked up directly in Cassandra’s hazel eyes and murmured in a low voice, “You can suspect me in all you want, Seeker, but right now you need me, admit it.”

Something changed in the air. Was it a newfound tension that rolled off Cassandra or the smell of burning wood that came from afar, Tairinn couldn’t tell, but her instincts were on high alert. It moved ahead, cold and unnerving, dark and unsettling, unnatural and Tairinn felt the mark constrict. Not pain, not yet at least, _bless the Sphere_ , but awareness and anticipation.

“We must run,” she nudged Cassandra, not giving her a moment to argue. The second warrior threw her a questioning glance already speeding up and ignoring Varric’s words as they sprinted forward.

 

As soon as they jumped down on the ice covered river bank again, demons poured on them, crawling from a cavern that had been hidden by a cliff before. It took Varric less than two seconds to release a hail of bolts, a habitual action that caused two shades sink into the ground, leaving a pile of dirt and muck instead.

“Still unhappy I'm with you, Seeker?” he bellowed at Cassandra who had already rushed to the enemy, causing the demons to scurry away from her in different directions. _This woman is scarier than Captain was when Darius got stoned and fed Ianthe his first poison,_ Tairinn thought wearily, turning to Solas briefly.

“I'll cover you, focus on the attack,” she warned him in a growl and cut off the clawed paw of the wraith that had been trying to reach her unshielded hand the next moment. She bent down, crossing the distance between herself and the demon, and thrusted her broken sword into its torso, then rolled, returning to Solas’ side.

The fight was like a breath of a fresh air for her, a respite from all the thinking and looking for ways out. The sword, a weapon not of choice but of necessity, sang in her hand in tune with the Voice in her head, leaving no room for the enemy to strike. Tairinn attacked the wraith that crawled towards Solas’ back with her teeth bared and eyes narrowed. The blood pounded in her ears as she danced away from demon’s strikes and into its blind spot. The chipped tip of the sword slashed creature’s dark body and sliced it like butter, propelling Tairinn forward with the momentum. Prepared for it, she dropped on one knee then to stop the movement and take a look at the battlefield.

The fight was coming to a close by this time. Demonic remains were covering the ice around the four in a thick layer, already starting to stink. Cassandra was wiping her sword carefully, Solas was digging the remains for something. _Ingredients, no doubt_ , came a fleeting thought.

A hand appeared in Tairinn’s field of vision and she took it with a soft smile, letting Varric tug her up somewhat. It was a hand that had been in many battles, callused and scarred, not once broken and knitted back together by Birdy’s gentle spells and Keren’s angry rites. The story of his life, it all was there, in the open, written over the freckled skin for those who know how to read it, and Tairinn did, cataloguing new lines of pale insensitive skin with her amber eyes. _Time hasn’t been kind to us_ , she could but did not say, _I’m sorry they left you._ She was, but it didn’t matter.

Varric smiled, sombre and haunted. They had not had a chance to get to know each other better before, but hiding and running, saving and killing and dying a little every day, they still became someone for each other. Not friends, not yet, but he saw it in Tairinn’s golden irises that they would soon. If they both can do as much as survive long enough.

 

She finally stood up under the scrutinizing gaze of Cassandra and in a few minutes the group was ready to continue the journey, but then Tairinn drew their attention to the skeleton of a house burning in the distance. It must have belonged to a fisherman with all the nets and fishing rods still lying around in disarray, but the fire must have killed the owner. Or they had managed to run away?

“I know, we’re in a hurry, but there may be survivors.” Cassandra seemed to read her thoughts and the Templar nodded in agreement, taking the rear of their small unit.

Taking a peek inside, they quickly surveyed a smoke filled room. The house was empty, but Varric still snuck in, covering his face from the fire licking the floor and walls and drew a pouch of coins and an unmarked ale bottle from an iron plated chest with a grand gesture.

“No point in leaving good stuff behind, Lady,” he winked and pulled the cork out with a tip of his small dagger once he was in the safety of the open again.

Two sips later he offered the bottle to Cassandra, who refused, and then passed it to Tairinn. She gulped the stuff greedily, welcoming the burn and revelling in the apple aftertaste. Not hard enough to get her drunk, the ale made her shoulders relax a little. The woman halved the bottle and looked at Solas questioningly, her brow raised as the man took the ale from her. It was another small thing that was puzzling: most mages she knew had been against any alcohol except ritual vine, but, on the other hand… that could be just Circle politics because Beardy had been one hell of a drunk.

The bottle finished, they were ready to continue on their way when Cassandra touched Tairinn’s shoulder briefly and inclined her head slightly at the small hut with a diamond-shaped window standing nearby.

“A moment,” the Seeker muttered and jogged towards the hut under the knowing gaze of the dwarf. He chuckled and immediately got a dirty look from Tairinn.

"Be grateful we’re not wearing full armor, Inky Fingers,” the Templar’s grin turned sly, “or you could freeze something important off while waiting for us.” Presented like this, prospects clearly were not as alluring, so Varric choked and went ahead to check the path, dragging Solas with him, “for company sake”. _Men,_ Tairinn laughed in exhasperation and followed Cassandra.

 

“So...” the dwarf intoned as they hit the road again, “you have something to do with the hole in the sky, Lady?”

Tairinn just rolled her eyes and tried to whack him upside the head playfully. “Your guess is?”

“Since when my words matter?” he countered bitterly, jumping away from her mock attack not slowing the pace. “You’d better spin some story anyway. They always have so much questions.”

 _There totally is some story here,_ Tairinn concluded as Cassandra’s spine became an impossibly straight line at the hidden accusation. Guilt mixed with anger and hopelessness was rolling from her in almost tangible waves. _Did she question Varric?_ The idea made her shiver.

The dwarf was a trickster and joker by nature, though in her opinion it was a well placed mask hiding self-doubt and loneliness. If Cassandra wanted something from the man, she must have gotten really pissed off at his non-answers or offhand half flirtatious jokes he continued to throw her way even now. Of course, she couldn’t burn his blood as she had done with Tairinn, but the man could hardly manage to do something to deserve such treatment. His hands weren’t glowing green at least.

 _She got really agitated when we spoke of Beardy_ , her mind supplied helpfully and Tairinn clicked her tongue in sudden realisation. _She is searching for Hawke. Why? Did he do something again? Does she want him to be prosecuted for Kirkwall? Or is there something else?_

“Maa,” she intoned thoughtfully, “Questions, questions… You see, Inky Fingers, I got here in Ferelden with my squad on Order’s orders.” She bared her teeth in a resemblance of a smile at the pun and went on, her voice rough and heavy with emotion, “Most of the squad is dead, my disciple included, only a Chanter and a mad alchemist survived by Maker’s grace. I’m here with the Fade sticking out of my hand. Good story, innit?”

The silence trickled around her like a deep, mighty Minanter, cutting off all sounds except her ragged breath and steady heartbeat pounding in her ears. The guilt was nothing new in Tairinn’s scheme of things, but now the list of the names she would mourn expanded four, no, five further.

Was she selfish or arrogant for grieving for her horse too? One might say so, but Hoka was a constant in Tairinn’s life for nearly seven years, a steady presence that had never, not once hurt her in any way. It was a mean thing to even think about, but over the years Tairinn almost got accustomed to the horrifying reality of people dying on her. Precious, needed, loved people. She thanked fates for her decision to join the Order then, hoping that her absence in brothers’ and sister’s lives would spare them, as her closeness only robbed Marie of her chances for normal life and broke Ruth. Then it turned Yenne into a monster and bled Dan to death. And then… the team.

“You still have no imagination, Lady.” Varric clapped her thigh in passing, breaking the empty void that filled her soul, all encompassing and deafening, into smaller and more bearable pieces.

“Still have a sword tho,” she snapped half heartedly, “and won’t hesitate to use it if someone goes on being noisy.”

The man just shook his head at her sagely, his red hair flapping wildly under the assault of the rising wind, and tried to tug his grey overcoat to cover his bare chest from cold. Needless to say, the attempt went in vain, leaving Varric spectacular chest hair to shine in the rays of spring sun like a beacon. _Maybe we can use him to blind the enemy,_ Tairinn huffed crossly and stared ahead where the mountain top slowly gave way to a slope.

 

“I hope Leliana passed here safely,” Cassandra muttered worriedly, watching several bodies of dead warriors lying on the road with disdain. She was choosing her steps carefully, threading between bloodless carcasses, sucked dry by the demons. No shade, no wraith could do such atrocity, it was work of a terror demon without any doubt. The Seeker glanced back, looking for Tairinn’s confirmation, but the scene before her made the woman choke.

There were no demons in sight and no apparent danger, so Tairinn threw her broken sword away carelessly and pulled a bastard sword from stiff fingers of one of the corpses. It felt gross to scavenge like this, but dead men had no need to fight any longer while she still did. The skulls, encased in shrinking, dehydrated skin, staring at her with their mouth gaping and eye sockets empty, were the sight she chose to ignore. She had seen worse things in the years of her service and while it wasn’t something one could get used to completely, the initial shock usually worn off somewhere between the second encounter with blood mages and their work and being crushed by fear inflicted by a terror demon for the first time. _You either get used to it, or lay low in the Monastery_ . Tairinn wiped charred blood off the blade and swung it in her right hand before sliding the sword in the empty scabbard on her hip. _Still worse than mine was, but it’ll have to make do._  

Solas must have noticed how she was looking around, searching for something to use as a shield, and pointed at a black, metal reinforced wooden piece sticking out of the snow with a flamberge-like blade of his worn hornbeam staff. _Show off,_ the woman thought in passing.

It was absolutely impractical as the blade was thin and wavy, suited to draw lots of blood and sink deep into inflicted wound, and no mage could waste their precious time to fiddle while pulling it out. Quite dangerous, yet flimsy and easily breakable unless enchanted, it lacked credibility it Tairinn’s opinion.

The mage, however, surprised her once more, when the blade disappeared slowly into the base of the staff without a sound at his silent command and a flick of a calloused index finger over the rune, carved into the handle. _Sneaky bastard,_ she muttered to herself at the display, getting the message he was sending her way loud and clear. If it ever went down to a fight, the man won’t be an easy target but a formidable opponent.

Tairinn inclined her head gratefully then, her eyes lingering on mage’s blue ones, challenging and _so old_ , and picked the shield up. The familiar weight immediately made her feel more confident. It, as well as newfound bastard sword, of course, were not exactly the weapons that she had lost in the explosion, but better than nothing.

As Tairinn was busy equipping herself, Varric carefully closed in, flanking Cassandra. The woman was stuck between gaping at the Templar and throwing sorrowful looks at the bodies, her scarred jaw working slowly as if she wanted to say something, scold her and the mage maybe. Her lip kept twitching, but still she stayed silent, apparently understanding Tairinn’s motivation at least to some extent, even if she didn’t agree with her actions.

“Nightingale is a tough one,” the dwarf tried to console Cassandra gently, however refraining from touching high-strung Nevarran. “She’s good, Seeker. Let’s go and you’ll see it yourself.”

Tairinn chose this moment to join them, raising her unscarred brow questioningly at the pair as she marched forth. During one of the Breach’s pulses a comet flew past them, shattering something down the hill that lied ahead and the sense of awareness shifted in her, raising alarm and throwing her body into the state of adrenaline shock. Darkness tore through the Veil easily and mercilessly, pouring out from the Fade and into the real world. It was the first time Tairinn felt the rift open and she did not like it. At all.

 

They stumbled over the hilltop in unorganized pile only to witness the outworldly fire light up the ground beneath the shining tear, dripping with acid green slime and demons. Crooked reflections of people’s emotions, they swarmed around the forming pool, cutting off the group's access to the last gate, separating them from the forward camp.

“We must close it as soon as possible,” Solas cried out, covering the group with a bluish barrier that clung to Tairinn like a second skin, “use the mark!”

The fight broke out as Cassandra roared, once again attracting all attention to herself. Varric was a steady presence at Seekers back, showering demons with a hail of bolts. Solas spun around wildly to slice through the wraith’s formless body with the tip of his staff and cast something unrecognizable, inexplicable, primal. The spell intertwined with the Fade itself and pulled it around the elf like a cloak, shielding his body as he poured his energy into the barrier again.

Tairinn felt rather than saw it all as she extended her marked hand out and towards the rift, allowing a thin thread of connection to form between them. The pain pierced her shoulder as the thread turned into a rope, no, the net! Strong and unyielding, it began pulling the woman in, but she just braced against the frozen ground with all her might, disregarding a bone crushing tension that engulfed her body. “I negate!” she groaned and tugged a tight knot of almost physically tangible threads out from the rift and closed the fist.

A new explosion, nothing but a distant rumble this time, informed her, blinking through the pain, that the rift had closed. She could hear no sounds of a battle and hoped it had died down, too tired to even raise a shield. Was it too much to hope for?

A hand, heavy because of the veridium gauntlet, dropped onto Tairinn’s hurting shoulder, steadying her swaying body. _Who could have thought the Seeker would be holding me upright one day,_ Tairinn thought wryly and it finally broke her stupor.

“Thanks,” she said as she stepped away and rubbed the back of her neck self consciously, nearly flopping on the ground when she slipped in the pool of demonic remains. The demons, it seemed, were busted into the smithereens with the explosion of the rift. _Must remember this one_.

“I don’t have the slightest idea about how you got this thing on your hand, but it seems to be useful, Lady,” the dwarf jabbed Tairinn’s faulds covered hip with his elbow, as heavy doors crept open, finally granting the group the access to the camp where a redhead Left Hand of the deceased Divine was arguing with a very unpleasant-looking Chantry man with a grossest moustache the Templar ever seen in her twenty six years of life.


	10. Pride and Prejudices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aidan died because of this. They all… I have to find the one who sacrificed the Divine to power that trash…” she spit red on the ground and glared at Cassandra, resolution burning in her golden eyes. “I have to find him and end him.”
> 
> “I bet you do, Lady,” Varric huffed unsteadily and threw her a pointed look from below. “And you’re not the only one.”
> 
> “Then get in line,” Tairinn cut back sharply and turned to Solas. “Still good enough to go on?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a menace. I've been trying to figure it out for weeks and nothing seemed right since I always end up adding something new. Anyway, here I take magic system of Thedas and twist it a little bit to have some more room for drama and, I hope, fun in future.
> 
> All mistakes are unintended, but if you see something that is really out of place, please let me know in comments or through [my tumblr](http://away-with-eastern-wind.tumblr.com/)  
> Thanks for reading and, if you liked it, please drop some feedback!

“The prisoner must be taken to the Breach!” Leliana was furious, that much was evident even from the gates the group stood at. She stared the man with such contempt, it could make the most ignorant person back down. He, however, puffed his chest and started screaming at her instead.

“She must be shackled and sent to Val Royeaux for execution immediately!” His screeching echoed in the valley, making both Tairinn and Cassandra cringe as they approached the scene. While the Templar seemed nonplussed by his attitude, the Seeker let a low growl escape her throat and moved to stand by Leliana’s side. “You have caused enough damage already!” Chancellor  squeaked an octave higher as Nevarran’s looming figure entered his line of sight.

Tairinn could and would swear on Varric’s chest hair, _if the bastard doesn’t shut up now, his time will run out sooner rather than later._ His judgement, however, was clearly clouded by the feeling of self-righteousness or whatever lies the Chantry men used to convince themselves of their importance this days.

“I have caused?” Neatly trimmed brows rose gracefully as the redhead hissed dangerously. Her eyes narrowed further and she looked like a snake watching its prey. Long slender fingers clenched the surface of a makeshift table forcefully before Leliana managed to pull herself together and hid them in the sleeves of her unusual armor.

Now, seeing both Hands of the Most Holy in the daylight and not so delirious from the mark messing with her body, Tairinn for the first time realized how small Leliana was, especially compared with Trevelyan's own height. The way the redhead carried herself, however, erased all differences, because the woman was truly intimidating without even trying. With a fake gentle smile worthy of being put in “10 best killing intent” exhibition hall she repeated, “I have caused this?”

“You, Cassandra, the Most Holy! This… Conclave-” the man spat derisively, not hiding his disgust and forgetting with whom he spoke again, “- it was doomed from the beginning! Haven’t you done enough?”

“Maa, that’s the Chantry I know.” Tairinn’s sarcastic jibe interrupted the argument, shifting all attention on her, but the woman only grinned, showing her canines in not so silent challenge, and went on, closing in on the wide eyed man. “How would you prefer to execute me, Brother? A torture rack or beheading, never aging classics? How much blood of innocents are you willing to shed to get everything done your way?”

She spoke quietly, her words falling free in barely a whisper. Unblinking, cold golden eyes glared at the man as Tairinn copied bewitching monotonous intonations of the Voice that sounded in her head again. Dark, tall and full of crippling, barely restrained power, she approached the clerk and stuck her left, glowing with emerald green hand right under his puffy red nose. “This can close rifts. It must help seal the Breach.”

“How dare you,” he snarled, “I am Chancellor Roderick! My word is the law!” For all his noisiness and sharp tongue, Tairinn was the Templar and knew all too well what was his place in the Chantry hierarchy. To say his claim infuriated her was a gross understatement. Cassandra must have felt the same.

“You are nothing but glorified clerk,” she spat aggressively as her lips curled in the grimace of disgust, and Tairinn couldn't agree more.

“You have no say in the matters of war and peace,” the Templar managed to hiss through gritted teeth, barely restraining her urge to slap the ignorant moron.

A hand touched hers, curled reflexively into a fist and ready to strike, and tugged Tairinn back from Roderick. “Don’t overdo it, Lady,” came Varric’s voice from below and she deflated, losing the fire that made her overreact. The dwarf was right, there was no way injuring the Chancellor could get her any points with those really in charge.

Uncomfortable with her outburst, Tairinn threw a tentative glance at Cassandra and Leliana and found them both in a different stages of anger and confusion. While the Seeker must have already gotten the idea of Tairinn’s relationship with the Chantry being somewhat unusual for a normal Templar, the bard was watching her with radiant, calculating eyes, glinting with interest and something akin to mild surprise. _There’ll be lots of talking soon,_ Tairinn thought and shuddered, remembering what had to be done before. She whispered her thanks to Varric who stopped her from switching from words to fists and asked both hands of the Divine, ”What’s our plan?”

Not paying attention to the screeching of the repulsive Chancellor felt great. It was clear as day that none of the soldiers standing next to the raging man were going to listen to his “orders”, all of them were staring at the Seeker instead, ready to catch her every word. Well, it was predictable in a way, since old military habits die hard. The Chancellor could scream his title till the Breach ate Thedas thrice and he still would hardly have more weight in the eyes of the soldiers than a member of the Seekers of Truth.

Cassandra seemed to know that too. “We have to go to the Temple,” she said stubbornly as she turned away from Roderick, who continued to spread panic, arguing for retreat. “We have what may be the only chance to seal the Breach and we _will_ use it.”

“Take the mountain path,” Leliana suggested quietly. “It is longer, but safer. The troops will distract enemy forces here.” Her lips were pursed in a frown as she contemplated other opportunities, but none of them, apparently, was satisfying enough.

“No,” Cassandra leaned on the table and exhaled wearily. “It makes no sense to send people to die and go the other way.” Tairinn nodded in agreement and raised her eyes to the sky. The Breach was spinning slowly up there, all green and black, thunder and lightning, disaster and death. “What would you do?” came Seeker’s question, hasty, but sure.

“We’ll go through,” Tairinn answered without a second of hesitation. She glanced sideways at Roderick, still wailing helplessly to attract attention, and spit some blood from her split lip on the frozen stones of the bridge they were standing on. The mark, even blocked by the Sphere of Annulment, was taking its toll on her body. “I'm probably not going to live till the 'execution’ anyway.”

No matter how carefree she tried to sound, she still got a heavy look from Cassandra, who shook her head and gave the soldiers order to prepare for the fight before dragging Tairinn with her to the uphill path.

 

Corpses were everywhere. Some twisted and broken beyond recognition, others completely unharmed as if they had just fell asleep for a moment. Snow under Tairinn’s feet was covered in blood and grime and seemed rusty and burnt. Could snow burn at all?

Wounded soldiers slowly meandered towards makeshift fortifications to recover at least a little, hanging on each others’ shoulders. Their footprints were leaving uneven paths smeared with crimson and it was too much like Kirkwall and completely different all at once. It was like Wildervale or Red Creek, entrenched in hopelessness and fear, it was like Ansburg and a small unnamed village near Hasmal, reeking of odd, meaningless deaths.

Tairinn slowed her pace, concentrating. Her feet, weak and trembling, body filled with bone deep exhaustion, were freezing, but not from cold mountain winds. Voices, one after another, woke to sound in her head, forming a quiet whisper turning into an eerie, dark song.

Suddenly the earth shook and new comets burst out from the Breech, showering everything in the vicinity with shards of stone touched by the Fade. One meteor collided with the ground right under the feet of a scout who was running towards the main camp, throwing the man up in the air like a ragdoll. A lifeless body crashed into sharp stones seconds later, twisted by the explosion, and dirty snow was stained with new splashes of still warm blood. Tairinn felt sick.

“There’s lyrium deposits somewhere close”, she rasped, pressing on her shaved temples with the balls of her palms, “could be red. Nothing sings like this stuff.”

“You can hear it?” Varric choked on his words, horrified by the thought.

“It sings. All Templars hear lyrium,” Tairinn explained grimly. “ It is a quiet whisper on the edge of consciousness, only this one sounds quite different. And I’d say you'd better never know this song, but you must have had already, Inky Fingers. Could have ignored it in the heat of the battle though.”

Judging by the silence that followed, the dwarf got her hint and preferred to drop the issue. Cassandra, on the other hand, could not ignore the way they both frowned and rubbed their must-be-scarred places idly: while Varric’s one was quite prominent, going through his nose, Tairinn clutched at her left thigh, hidden beneath veridium faulds of her armor.

“Are you talking of battling Meredith?” she asked inquisitively and watched both archer and swordswoman’s expressions darken.

“Who else would be a damn walking red stuff statue?” Tairinn huffed indignantly, still trying to cut off the whispers in her head.

Most normal people probably would be scared, but she had been accustomed to the Voice’s songs since her childhood, and eventually even learned to shut them out by meditation and training. When, after she gave her vows to the Order, whispers of lyrium joined the Voice, Tairinn took it in stride, thinking that, everyone goes crazy in their own way. She had those philosophic moods frequently during her teenage years. But the first acquaintance with the red kind of Chantry's favorite poison left her absolutely unimpressed and, truth be told, scared shitless.

“If you were in Kirkwall in 9:37 and saw what we’d seen...” she muttered, balling her left hand into a fist. A strange sensation, growing feeling of connection filled Tairinn’s chest once again and she had a hard time to breathe.

“How lyrium could happen here?” Cassandra's voice was crisp with tension, but she didn’t have time to get her answers. Her breath hitched as a dangerously looking emerald slash opened mid air, hovering over the stone-strewn road.

“A rift!” Solas said, almost reverent, and the team rushed forward immediately, falling into already familiar positions.

 

Varric scaled half-ruined column and shot the demons down from there as they leapt out from the glowing tear through the Veil. Cassandra was taunting the enemy with growls and cries, rushing through battlefield like a furious hurricane of steel and rage, crushing demons with her sword. For every wraith that tried to catch her blind spot there was a bolt that blew their shifty forms to smitherness.

Tairinn was swearing profusely while covering Solas. With magic everywhere around her, grating on her nerves like nails on the glass, dispelling shades’ blasts and not turning on elvhen mage was close to impossible. He twisted and turned those subtle ties that pierced the Veil and thrummed around every object of reality, animate or not, with ease. That was not uncommon as mages tended to do so with their, well, magic, but there was something different with Solas.

He wove his spells with dignity of a royalty, but with fury of a heathen. Precise as they were, Tairinn could barely dissect their nature before they materialized and it made her uneasy with Solas’ skill. The elf managed to keep the barrier up upon three of them and summon sharp needles of ice that tore through the enemies from under the ground at the same time, and he did it almost playfully.

Suddenly, another warrior appeared on the battlefield, clashing with half-materialized terror demon shield first and throwing it back to the rift. Tall and spiky beast disappeared from under Tairinn’s sword and she caught a glimpse of a blond hair and a familiar face before rolling back. She couldn’t help but curse again, because she knew who was in front of her, and, more importantly, what was behind him, rising from a bubbling molten snow. “Commander, get down!” she cried out, already pushing her power past him to cut the demon from the Fade. Her Negation sped towards the terror, but man’s reflexes worked impeccably and he ducked, turning sharply, allowing his sword to complete the arc it had started and divide approaching demon in halves.

“Tairinn, the rift!” Cassandra's cry made the woman turn to the foggy green that was splitting the air above them, ready to spit out a new portion of demons. No time to waste, she dropped the shield to the ground at her feet and stretched her ridiculously glowing left hand out to the light. The connection was established almost instantly, drawing Tairinn in, binding her body to the rift.

She fought the pull of the Fade both physically and mentally as she gathered strength and turned her focus inward, where the small spark of her power shone invisibly. It felt as if someone set her body on cold fire when she jerked free, not only dispelling magic that was spilling over the rift’s edge, but also protecting her hand from the impact. Once again, weakness took over Tairinn’s body and forced her to fall to her knees, but Varric's strong hands saved her face from saying hello to the cold earth.

“You are a quick learner,” Solas praised her like Wycome’s enchanters praised their apprentices when they managed to cast their first successful spell. _You have no idea,_ she thought snidely but then relief flooded her features as mage pulled at the Fade again, summoning a healing spell she had not recognize. It finally stopped trembling in her hands and feet, however, so she wasn't really in the place to argue. Gradually it became easier to breathe and Tairinn’s vision cleared slowly while she sat gingerly on the frozen ground not longer hidden under the molten snow.

“You've managed to find a way to close it!” the blond man exclaimed, sounding no less relieved than Tairinn had been. She smiled crookedly to herself, watching him approach Cassandra: he seemed to change a lot. A tired but determined man she had been not once hiding Kirkwall mages from was still tired, but more at peace, even though the hole in the sky was still spinning wildly. He could more possibly become a problem than an ally, but she had no time to dwell on that thought, because Cassandra's strong hands hauled her up in one powerful movement and then stayed at Tairinn's sides, holding her upright.

“Not me exactly,” the Seeker chuckled and, after she made sure Tairinn could stand on her own, ignoring the way Varric's shoulder was pressed into Templar's thigh, took a step forward with a smile. “But our captive did. Are you well?”

The man and Tairinn both nodded simultaneously and Cassandra let out a barking laugh when they both raised their hands to rub their necks in unison. The man grinned self-consciously and said, “Just some bruises and scratches, nothing serious. What about you?” He turned to Tairinn, not even questioning her unshackled hands and unsheathed weapon. His gaze lingered on her breastplate though.

“I’d much prefer not having a hole in my hand, especially filled with magic to the brim, but Maker forbid we have nice things,” the woman answered, rubbing her wrist. “Although, another couple of Negations of such force and I guess I'll be arriving to Val Royeaux for my execution in a nice wooden casket.” Her bad attempt at humor wasn't appreciated in the slightest judging by the faces of her companions. Well, except Solas. The elf was staring impassionately at the Breach above them, completely ignoring Seeker-Templar trio right next to him. _The audacity,_ Tairinn thought with amusement and rubbed her neck with a healthy hand again.

Commander narrowed his eyes at her breastplate once more. “I hope what they say about you is true, and you will close the Breach,” he said calmly.

“Same shit,” she grinned back. “I think there's enough life threatening experiences for both of us, Knight-Commander. Although, I admit it's surprising to meet you here. Seems too much like a some strange reunion party with to me, innit?” He raised an eyebrow in surprise and Tairinn watched his eyes grow wide in recognition with fascination.

“So I did hear right.” The man took a step towards her and peered into her features. “I guess we did meet, but I can't remember your name, soldier. Anyway, this rank no longer belongs to me. I left the Order.” It was Tairinn's turn to blink is shock.

Leaving the Order was a rare statement from a Templar. She, already a repeat offender of Chantry’s lyrium rule, had never thought about quitting the system itself, preferring the familiar guidance of Revered Mother Nita to the unknownness of freedom. Partly, it was because she had known what happened to ex-Templars, partly due to Her Last Word quite specific position among other Order hubs. For all ill done by Order members, Tairinn firmly believed what they did in Wycome was undoing the harm at least to some extent.

Knight-Commander, on the other hand, served in Kirkwall, which meant he had seen and lived absolutely different if more widespread reality of the Order. For all that had transpired in the city… Tairinn couldn't really blame him for wanting to quit, and his actions during the uprising… _Well, the man’s better never meet Keren again_ , came the fleeting thought as she opened her mouth to speak.

“Kirkwall, 9:37,” she offered, squinting when a new wave of light sprung from the Breach, blindingly bright and twice as long. The scar on Tairinn's hand twitched, growing, but she payed it no mind, offering the man her right, unharmed, for an introductory handshake. “Lieutenant Tairinn, Corporal back then. My team was backing up the fighters in the courtyard.”

The man tensed, looking at her left hand where the mark was still flashing dangerously, but shook the one she extended to him with a firm nod. “Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inq…” he stammered, glancing at Cassandra, and changed the subject abruptly. “Many died to let you reach the ruins. We can barely hold the demons off.”

Tairinn just sighed, bone deep exhausted, and closed her fingers on the hilt of her sword decisively. “So I’ve seen. I'll do anything in my powers to close the Breach, Commander. I know my duty.”

The wind was still howling in the mountains, throwing cold, sharp blasts of snow at them from time to time, comets continued to shower the ground with pieces of Fade, the vortex in the skies grew bigger with every pulse. For a moment Tairinn's heart was filled with an uncertainty, with fear of what lied ahead, but steady hissing of red lyrium and Voice’s uncontained discontent with it grounded the woman, reminding her of the price the world and people paid and would pay if she failed. She would go on and pour every drop of her power out to stop the world from ending, even if it would be her last deed.

“That is all we ask for,” the blonde man nodded again with a hint of satisfaction in his brown eyes and turned to Cassandra who had been watching their exchange with unmistakable interest. “The path to the Temple is clear. I will advise Leliana to join you inside.” The Seeker bowed slightly and pulled Tairinn away from the remains of the rift by the elbow.

The Marchan followed dutifully, but didn't miss a chance to wave her marked hand at the Commander teasingly as she winked and shot him her best grin. If the rumors of Commander being as clumsy with women as a green recruit had been true, she couldn't miss a chance to taunt him a bit. Twenty six was a little bit too late to change one’s habits, in the end, and Tairinn did love watch men squirm immensely.

“Maker watch over you,” he quipped before turning away hastily, the tips of his ears going significantly redder than before. He jogged off to the broken gates and hauled one of the wounded soldiers upright, helping him back on the feet. As Tairinn joined the team in their tracks towards the half crushed entry to what might have been a back entrance to the Temple, Commander led his small army back to the forward camp.

 

The ruins ahead could be described with one word only and that word would be hell. The smell of decaying flesh was filling the air, making Tairinn's eyes water, obscuring the view. She wiped them with her right hand jerkily, not daring to bring the left, still spitting Fade sparks, too close to her face. When she looked up, her first instinct was to suppress the bile rising in her throat.

Burnt beyond recognition corpses were frozen forever in the poses explosion had found them. Horrifying monuments to the events that had transpired in the Temple they were, some still on fire, some smouldering slowly. They would be seared in Tairinn's memory forever, she was sure, because no one could see such monstrosity and live on unscathed, she certainly could not.

Not a single wall survived here, broken columns and molten stones were scattered everywhere, forcing the team to watch their steps closely. Tairinn walked cautiously, choosing where to put her feet with great care in order not to slip on the debris covering the remains of the floor they entered. She had no memory of that place, but when half collapsed corridor finally led them out on a long balcony once lined by a roughly ornamented balustrade, Tairinn gasped in shock.

The place was a mess. The explosion destroyed everything from the ground level to the roof, leaving behind an array of unnaturally glowing pikes, protruding from every surface, and the cocoon of emerald green, hidden behind the sharp nodes of what looked like brightly lit veridium deposit. It moved constantly, shifting and pulsing as a living thing, protecting the cocoon inside.

Panic rose in Tairinn's chest like a wave. _Too big, too far away, too strong for me to manage_ , she thought desperately as her heartbeat went wild. The rhythmic movements of the spikes jerked, twisting, and a familiar feeling of connection surged through the Templar's left hand, but didn't manage to come through the Sphere of Annulment. _This thing is reflecting the beating of my heart,_ came the chilling understanding and she grasped at the Varric's shoulder blindly.

“This is wrong,” she rasped, unblinking, and his hand covered her unmarked one.

“I'm sorry, Lady,” he murmured in response. There wasn't really that much to say, even though he usually was pretty good with words. So he just let her find whatever small comfort in his company she could.

“It's there,” Cassandra's heavy palm touched the small of Tairinn's spine where her grime smeared sash hid the junction between the cuirass and the faulds of her armor. “You fell out of the rift here, but the soldiers all say they saw a woman's figure right behind you. She pushed you out just before it sealed itself.”

“I… I do remember her.” Tairinn's voice was wavering, uncertain, colorless. “She said I don't belong to this place and… pushed me away.” The Marchan shook her head, letting dark hair fall on her eyes, dimming their golden glow.

Inhaling deeply, she let Varric's shoulder go and took the first step towards mostly intact set of stairs that was on the opposite side of the balcony perimeter. Others went after her only for Cassandra to crash into Tairinn's back as she stopped abruptly with a curse.

“So I wasn't imagining… Stay away from this shit!” she commanded roughly. The whispers too loud in her head to bear now, she clutched her temples with both hands and let out a ragged breath. There was no time to fall apart or meditate to drown the sounds out, so Tairinn steeled herself and stepped aside carefully, letting the team see what put her in so much fear.

The walls, burnt and crumbling, were glimmering in the dimness of the ruins, covered from the early evening sun by the mountain peaks. There were crystal veins set in stone, bright red, the color of cherry rather than blood and pulsing slowly. Some of them protruded through the stone in needle like nodes, its sharp-edged spikes threatening to pierce anyone who would dare to come closer.

“It's young,” Varric said, his voice filled with disgust and wonder in equal proportions. “The spikes are still thin.”

“It was there when my squad came,” Tairinn replied to the question left unsaid, husky. “It was there well before the explosion, but clearly have started to grow since. Stronger now.”

Crimson glow mixed with emerald shine of the stones that the Breach had thrown out, coloring the place with eerie light. It reminded Tairinn too much of the things she had always tried to push away to the corners of her consciousness, like Red Creek Abbey. Or Wildervale mines. Or Kirkwall, but that one was impossible to forget.

“This place is tainted.” Tairinn had no intention to stay so close to the dangerous crystal, not a second longer than it was truly necessary. Shaken, she looked up from an opalescent cloud of steamy vapor emerging from red lyrium deposits and met Cassandra's gaze, sick with worry. “It is full of broken song. The whispers won't leave.”

The sound of her voice grew distant and monotone as _we are sundered, we are crippled_ filled her mind. Not for the first time she had encountered the red lyrium, but Tairinn had never seen so much, not even on Meredith in her last moments. _It would be so easy to surrender,_ she thought, unfeeling. It was still her, was it?

“Maker's breath, you have made it!” Leliana's sharp soprano rang through the balcony but wasn’t enough to make Tairinn tear her eyes away from the crystal veins. She ignored the redhead completely, not paying any attention to the way Leliana’s accent thickened in distress as she questioned Cassandra on their status. Only when the woman touched her elbow in fleeting as she slipped past carefully, Tairinn blinked slowly, letting the screeching of the Voice in her head overcome lyrium whispers.

“It is waking,” the Templar intoned. The rage filled her mind in familiar hurricane of power, but her body was numb, so hot from the proximity of the red monstrosity that her nervous system nearly got fried with shock. The words felt heavy as she pushed them out of her mouth, “too close…”

Her unmarked hand twitched, nails scraping maroon material of her belt as if to grab something that wasn't there. Shaky fingers closed on a small simple vial instead of a dagger with urgency and Tairinn almost sobbed in relief. The very last resort, it was still here, unharmed and unopened, special concoction that Darius had brewn for her, for all of her squad after 9:37. _I won’t let it have me._

The index finger poked the cork, prying it open as the woman concentrated all her will power on holding back a pained whimper. Her whole body was on fire, torn between the anger of the Voice and indifferent pressure of the whispers, but there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide under the acidic light of the hole in the sky torn asunder. That thought, a single spark of remembrance brought Tairinn back to herself. _Can't escape. Need to seal the Breach. Can't die now._ The hand fell limply to her side and the vial slipped from her loose fist, shattering on the ground. A bright yellow, thick liquid seeped into the stones under her feet with a hiss, eating the floor away and taking away Tairinn's last chance for an easy death. There was no escape now, not until her blood boiled either from red lyrium poisoning, or from whatever the Breach would do to her soon.

What felt like hours to her barely took a moment in reality, but Varric seemed to notice Tairinn’s trance like state and threw his head up to stare at her face. When the void stared back at him from the black pools of emptiness, circled by a thin thread of molten gold, he oohed.

“Hey, come to your senses, Lady!” The dwarf swatted Tairinn’s tigh, urgent and panicked, in attempt to call her back from whatever place her mind drifted to. “Damnit, another madwoman is exactly what we need the least now! Hey! Don’t you even think about grabbing it!”

“Don’t… Don’t worry, Inky Fingers,” she chuckled hoarsely and set her shoulders straight. Her throat was raw and she felt so tired that eternal sleep wouldn’t be enough of rest, but the green vortex above their heads and the pulsing cocoon of magic to her left were still here to ground her. “Ain’t gonna touch this shit even for all gold in the world.” Her mouth twitched as she took a step aside, trying to keep the distance between herself and red lyrium as big as possible.

Leliana was still talking to Cassandra in a low voice, throwing concerned glances at the lyrium deposits and the Templar from time to time, but she seemed oblivious to Tairinn’s temporary loss of control. The Seeker’s attention was mostly focused on the soldiers that crowded the crumbled corridor entrance, and she bit her lip until her teeth drew blood. Solas, calm and expressionless face of whom looked like a mask in a green-red light, was staring at the Breach as some Templars who’d seen too much used to stare at the sun - empty and unseeing.

His magic was, however, pulsing in tune to the vortex, shaping a spell Tairinn couldn’t place. A barrier shield? Something offensive? Or was it a carcass of a mass healing spell? It was hard to tell with this man, his magic wild and immensely structured at the same time, something absolutely different from what Circle taught its enchanters. From what Tairinn had noticed from previous fights, everything Solas had cast was relying heavily on the Fade itself. It seemed as if he was twisting the very Veil to draw the power for his creations, not fighting for every grain of power it gave him, but rather taking it as he saw fit. It was unusual, suspicious and a little terrifying, but useful and for the time being it had to be enough.

 _I can get to know him to understand his power better, if I survive that is_ , Tairinn thought bitterly and sighed. The more they waited, the bigger the vortex grew, swallowing more and more of the dimming evening sky. Maybe a small nudge would do.

“Maa, don’t we have a Breach to close? I don’t think I’m ever getting used to it,” she said to no one in particular and Cassandra immediately stopped Leliana’s monotonous voice laying out plans of plans on how to approach the problem with a raise of her armored hand.

“We cannot come unprepared,” she said, but her face was tired and unsure.

“There’s no way to prepare for everything, Cass,” Tairinn retorted with a shake of her head and reached out with her glowing hand. “The Negation won’t hold for long and when it breaks I’ll be good for nothing. We’re wasting time here, talking and all.” Some sparks flew out of the cut, a mockingly timely evidence of Templar’s reasoning. The Breach moved again, raining grime down on them.

With a groan Cassandra nodded and turned back to Leliana, who had been watching the two with a brow raised questioningly. “Shall we start then?” she asked with a softness it her voice that Tairinn found entirely out of place. _Damn bards and their crooked brains_ , she winced as Cassandra nodded and gave the last orders.

“Leliana, have archers guard the perimeter. Find good positions and be prepared for a fight.” She waited for redhead Orlesian’s acceptance and as she left for the soldiers crowd, the Seeker turned back to Tairinn. Their eyes met and held for a moment filled with dread of what was to come. “Are you truly ready to put an end to this madness?”

“Yes,” Tairinn said firmly. She had nowhere to go except for going forward now, towards the unknown. She would let the fear catch up with her later, maybe would even have a good old crying fit. Just not now. “Only…” she looked at Varric with an unreadable expression and clasped his shoulder tightly. “If I die down there, do me a favor, send a notice to Brother Ethan at Markham University. He’ll do the rest."

“And if you don’t?” Dwarf sounded exaggeratedly cheerful as he turned away, pretending to count remaining crossbow bolts. They both preferred to ignore the way their voices were shaking just a little.

“Then I'll write him myself.”

 

The descent was slow, maddeningly so. The four threaded through the rubble lit only by the dimming sunlight and glimmer of the red lyrium nodes. Careful steps brought them closer to the stairway that was leading to the apparent center of explosion, a completely barren surface of molten stone with a single intact column in its midst. It held a cracked statue of Andraste, her hand pointing imperiously at the cocoon of magic and light with what once was a spire. Now its tip was rotating slowly around the green sphere among constantly shifting spikes.

“What a mockery,” Cassandra spat at the sight of it, clearly incensed, “Whoever had done this, shall pay dearly!”

Tairinn just squared her shoulders and clenched her marked fist. She could, of course, join Seekers religious ranting, but in truth she couldn't care less about the statue. The idols, old and new, she saw aplenty in the years of her service. Well-maintained and all but forgotten, human and elvhen and even some of the dwarven fine crafts - they bore meaning, but were of no help when the time came for the lives to be on the line. So why should she worry about the stone being shattered when the very thing that was pulsing at the height of twenty feet above the ground could shatter her own bones at any moment? Still, she opened her mouth to mutter some more curses just for the sake of cursing and almost bit her tongue as the world shifted.

“Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.” The echo of a deep and unmistakably male voice rang across the ruins, stunning everyone. It resonated from the mountains and soared up to the Breach, a low rumble of an upcoming storm, a promise of darkness and despair. Something vile and deranged and filled with dreadful certainty was in the words that Tairinn had already heard but couldn’t place.

“What is _that_?” Cassandra’s sword left its sheath as she spun around wildly, trying to find the source of the sound. The woman’s eyes were narrowed dangerously and she was prepared to strike, the shield’s handle already in her left hand, balanced to fend off any attack.

“The echo of the past, I must presume,” Solas answered rhythmically, finally sounding a little bit more present and actually interested. Tairinn felt the tendrils of his magic reach out and grasp at the Veil, not quite changing it, but sliding across the surface, tasting it. It was the most peculiar technique she had ever encountered, she wondered as the man continued to explore the Veil. “We could have heard creator of the Breach.” There was doubt in man’s tone though.

“I’ve heard it,” the Templar murmured thoughtfully, memories flashing before her eyes in a patternless mess. A long badly lit corridor. Aidan’s worried face. Old, but imposing wooden door. “Behind that door at the Temple. And screams, there were screams.”

“Ah, most intriguing.” Solas’ magic suddenly billowed around him like a cloak as he took the lead of their small group. His staff was set alight, powered by the force the mage was collecting from the Fade and with every his step a small opalescent crystal on the very tip of the wooden part of the weapon went darker. Intricate weave sprung to life and began growing steadily in Tairinn’s inner vision, a beautiful ornament of sharp lines and crooked circles that became the base layer of a future seal.

“Are you trying to gather the imprint?” she asked then, finally recognising if not the spellwork, but the familiar tingling that settled under her ribs. Imprints were memories that had become too heavy, set its roots too deep in reality of a place or a person. It made it possible to collect them if the mage was skillful enough and knew the appropriate rites. Solas’ one wasn’t what Circle research papers described ‘imprint projecting’ to be, but, well, he had said he wasn’t a Circle mage... The man just hummed softly in agreement with Tairinn’s stray assumption and fastened his pace. He was looking like a predator hunting its prey, following the traces only he could feel and see.

“Freaky,” the Templar muttered, jumping over the fallen column and trying not to slip on the small rocks, covering the path Solas was choosing for them. _There is no point to argue his doing_ , she thought, _he still leads us to the stairs and if he can gather enough to project… We could have a chance to see the real culprit._ Cassandra seemed to come to the similar conclusion and was moving two steps beside the mage, swift and silent as a ghost.

Varric, on the other hand, was obviously trying to stay as close to Tairinn as possible. Maybe the knowledge that someone had already faced the same thing as he and understood the absurdity of what was happening calmed him down somehow? Or he was just worried Tairinn could go somnambulant from red lyrium proximity again? Anyway, there was no time to ask, so she shook the hair out of her eyes, gripped the handle of her sword a bit tighter and sprinted after Solas. The crystal of his staff was almost anthracite black now and the ornament he’d been weaving felt one stroke from completion.

“Keep the sacrifice still!” Another rumble shook the mountains and was immediately followed by a high pitched cry of pain. Tairinn flinched and blinked rapidly to clear her vision.

“Someone help me!” Feminine, but all the same disembodied voice echoed across the ruins and swept up to the rapidly darkening sky, making everybody stop in their tracks at the first step of the stairs leading down.

“It is almost ready,” Solas said through gritted teeth. His bald head was covered with a thin sheen of sweat and the Templar could see his fingers shaking from exertion as he hastily drew a complicated symbol on the ground with the blade of his staff. The mage was talented, she had to admit: imprint projection, especially in a potentially hostile conditions with demons crawling just beyond the thin of the Veil… Solas was skillful indeed and dangerously so.

Tairinn braced herself, feeling the air start to grow hotter and blur around the seal as it settled into the stone and began emanating a soft white glow. Something cracked and in a matter of seconds the world faded out to blackness, giving way to an obscure wavering vision.

 

“Help me!” The woman, wrinkled as someone who had spent years under direct sunlight would be, hangs midair in a huge hall, her long white-red robe clinging closer to her body with every sweep of what can only be blood magic at its worst that binds her. Her arms are spread in a wide arch and her chest glows where the heart is hidden under the layers of ceremonial outfit.

“Please,” she rasps hoarsely, staring hopelessly at unmoving figures surrounding her frail form. Their faces are blurry and armors elusive because imprint projection is a volatile technique, suitable for catching the essence, not every detail.

The binds grasp her body tightly, shift and turn, nearly breaking her spine in the process. Just as she gasps silently in pain, the magic finally stops its onslaught, forming a rough seal on woman's face. It sinks in immediately, coloring the white of her robes with blood as thick liquid starts dripping down slowly. The seal pulses once, strengthening, feeding on human life, sucking life force out of its bearer, and turns crimson against rapidly aging skin.

“Watch the true god ascend,” roars the voice of the invisible man, deep and dark as the ocean. He sounds pleased in his self-righteousness, but a loud bang breaks his reverie and a door crashes heavily into the wall.

Two men barge in, a tall one with his sword unsheathed and a shorter one shield first. They freeze at the horrendous sight of the sacrificial seal and the short, just a boy really, whispers in shock, “Ser, is this Most Holy...” Figures, holding the seal on the woman, move their heads in perfect unison to watch the two like puppets, but do not leave the circle, protecting the forming spell from disintegration.

“What’s going on here?” The voice of the tall one turns out to be low but it definitely belongs to a woman rather than a man. She changes the grip on the hilt of her sword and takes a fighting stance, assessing the situation warily. Her young companion stays behind, hiding behind a shield with Templar insignia on its polished surface. “Release the seal at once!” she barks as her eyes widen.

The invisible enemy hisses in disbelief when her first step forward brings the sword through the chest of one of the Divine’s captors. “Kill the intruders,” he orders and more blurry figures step out of shadows to stop the woman’s attack. It barely slows her down though and the sword rises again as she dances away from the enemies with a practiced ease, closing in to the bound figure hanging limply midair.

The Divine looks withered now, her face pale from the loss of blood, but when her eyes finally focus on the Templar, she chokes out, “Run while you can! Warn...” Then her eyelids fall down and the seal key on her forehead bursts with a blinding light.

Everyone freeze again, shocked by the surge of power that sweeps through the room. It changes the projection’s saturation and a pair of red eyes becomes visible for a moment, surrounded by the halo of impenetrable darkness. The form of it is humane, but only partly, because it is crooked to the side and easily as tall as 7’5 feet. Then the light dims and the monstrous figure eases back to the shadows.

Swordswoman curses and raises her left hand slowly, as if she lifts something fragile and heavy. “Slay the woman,” the madman orders again, but moments before his servants move to carry out the sentence, the Templar bares her teeth and points at the direction of that dark voice. “I negate,” she intones gravely and the magic recoils.

Something snaps and the seal on the Divine’s face fades along with the binds that crucified her. Her captors, as well as the ones that were ordered to kill the Templar, collapse on the floor in a mess of limbs, unconscious. The boy takes off in Divine’s direction without his partner’s command, catching her to cushion her fall. The tall woman doesn’t see it though, because her gaze is fixed to the ornately decorated sphere that is flying through the air towards her. She catches it on impulse, a small ball covered with uneven lines of a foreign seal, and magic explodes suddenly, piercing her left hand in a beam of emerald light and destroying the vision.

 

“Most Holy, it was her!” Cassandra cried out, clasping Tairinn’s left forearm with all her might. The Templar hissed from pain through her gritted teeth and reeled backwards, prying her hand away, only to be caught by the Nevarran again. “And you, you were there too! She called out to you!” The woman was trembling in shock, her brown eyes wide and a scar more prominent than it was before on the paled skin that seemed to lose some of its usual tan color.

“I have no memories of this fuckery,” Tairinn wheezed, her airways suddenly clogged by something liquid and hot. _Blood?_ She coughed some out and tried to wipe it from under her nose with a sleeve. Then realisation hit her and she stared at the mark on her hand with contempt, uttering something under her breath. “Aidan died because of this. They all… I _have_ to find the one who sacrificed the Divine to power that _trash…_ ” she spit red on the ground and glared at Cassandra, resolution burning in her golden eyes. “I have to find him and _end_ him.”

“I bet you do, Lady,” Varric huffed unsteadily and threw her a pointed look from below. “And you’re not the only one.”

“Then get in line,” Tairinn cut back sharply and turned to Solas. “Still good enough to go on?”

He nodded, tired but sure, and set his shoulders stubbornly. Tairinn could see he nearly hit the rock bottom of his mana resources and was acting on pure willpower now, but so was she. Without the mana part, of course.

She would bet, both Varric and Cassandra were out of breath and exhausted to the bone too, but the worst part still was to come, so the Templar only thanked the mage for his input and closed her eyelids in hopes to have some insight on how to seal the freaking skies before the tear became irreparable. Bless her Monastery and Circle education, the idea sparked at the back of her mind just some ten heartbeats later.

“This is the first one, innit?” she asked Solas, pointing on the cocoon of green that was pulsing steadily at the tips of Andraste’s fingers, and went on after his firm nod, “Means it has a direct connection with the mark and the Fade at the same time, hmmm?”

“Indeed.” Solas rubbed his jaw, deep in his thoughts, his icy blue eyes considering pulsating crystal. “I suppose it is acting as a stopper now. But it also kept bleeding the echo of the Fade into this world, so there ought to be some cracks.”

“So we need to pull this rift open and close again, tighter this time?” Cassandra measured both mage and Templar with a look of pure disbelief. _Must be hard for her to see us go all theoretical and shit on each other, with both of us being… who we are,_ Tairinn mused and waved her hand in agreement. That was indeed the plan.

“The first one is also directly connected with the Breach, I guess,” Solas added thoughtfully. “We close this one, then there is a chance to seal the Breach too, given we have enough power to pour into the sealing.”

“So!” Varric clapped his hands impatiently and swung back and forth on his heels, “We poke at the hole, pry it open and…?”

“And hope it won’t swallow us whole,” Tairinn muttered. “We can’t give you the foolproof escape plan, Inky Fingers, magic isn’t like that. But from what I see, the Breach will stay up, not growing anymore at the best, until we gather the power worthy of that sphere that had caused the destruction.”

The dwarf gave both Solas and Tairinn a look full of doubt, but raised his hands in mock surrender nevertheless. “Keren would go green with envy if he'd known you found yourself another mage friend to play with, Lady. I just hope you're right.” She snickered at the memory of Beardy wallowing habits and shook her head with a smile.

“He'd forgive me,” she said and raised a brow for emphasis, “and it's for the best he's nowhere in sight, the man is a shit magnet. I bet if he were here, the Breach would spit something much worse than stones and wraiths upon us.”

“Ah, it still could,” Solas gave all three a nonplussed look and his lips quirked in a shadow of a dark grin. “When we open this rift,” he pointed the crystal of his staff at the Andraste statue, “it will not go unnoticed from the other side.”

“Shit, he's right,” Tairinn muttered and closed the fingers of her left hand in a fist around the mark. “There’ll be demons,” she explained to others and turned to the sound of gravel crunching under someone’s boots coming from the stairway. It was Leliana and her face was grim.

“The vision,” she asked Solas, “was it true?”

“Indeed,” was his only answer.

“If you’re about to join the ‘find and kill him’ club, you’re very welcome,” Tairinn told her dryly, before the redhead could continue the questioning. “I’d say we deal with that,” she jerked her head in the direction of the rift, “and have some good ol’ brainstorm session later. Agreed? Agreed!” She clapped her hands with joviality so fake a toddler could see through it and took off towards the statue base suddenly, not waiting for anyone’s response. “Come on, the Breach won’t wait forever!”

Cassandra snarled and ran after the woman, her sword out and ready and shield up. Varric followed suit with Solas and Leliana not far behind. She was holding tightly on her bow, but her eyes were firmly set on the Templar’s back. The woman appeared determined and, Leliana dared to think, unafraid, but her instincts knew better. She must have been terrified if small, almost unnoticeable shaking in her hands was any indication.

And Tairinn truly was.

 

She came to a halt right under the cocoon of the rift, coming for air as if she’d been underwater for too long. Thoughts raced through her mind, of Ethan, Max, her dead squadmates, Ianthe and Darius, family… It was all a blur of faces and voices, gentle and rough, loving and hateful in their worry and Tairinn knew one thing only: she would do anything to protect them. No matter what, they must live.

She felt a hand on her thigh and opened eyes she didn’t remember closing to look down at Varric, smiling at her with badly concealed fear. She would fight for him too. And die, if that’s needed.

“Everyone ready?” she asked, husky, as soldiers scurried along the ruins. They surrounded the clearing under the rift, not daring to look at the pulsing spikes while archers took up positions on upper level parapets. Cassandra pulled the dwarf away from the Templar by the collar of his coat, pushing him back towards a crumbled column. He took the vantage point without argument, Bianca up and ready in his strong scarred hands. Tairinn winked at him for the last time and turned to the fellow warrior. “Shall we?”

“Do it.” Cassandra’s fingers brushed Tairinn’s elbow in silent support. “Maker, keep us safe.”

It turned out it was the only command Tairinn needed. Her left palm wound up towards the sky and a thin emerald thread connected the woman to the rift with a hollow crack. The Templar didn’t even have time to react to the gut-wrenching feeling of impending doom coming from the green mass as the rift split open like some twisted beast’s maw, revealing a distorted mirage of the Fade. It pulsed, darkening, and a huge shadow dimmed the ethereal light coming from the other side. The rift pulled at Tairinn, at the Fade, the Breach itself, stealing more and more energy to expand pliantly when a giant, at least three times taller than any human demon pushed through and crashed on the ground with a deafening roar.

“Pride...” Tairinn whispered in shock. The world shifted as instincts took over and she rolled away from a huge foot, connection slowly dissipating from her suddenly hurting arm.

 

The demon went on a rampage, crushing everything that was left of the Temple under his feet. All covered in spikes and horns, it looked devious and plain impossible, yet it existed and, judging by two lightning balls springing to life at the tips of what could be its fingers, it was planning to stay the sole survivor of the raging fight.

Lightnings sparkled, fast and inescapable. Before Tairinn could do anything, still concussed by the sudden onslaught of pain on her arm, not protected by the Sphere anymore, violet rays of electricity hit two soldiers, scorching their flesh. Hoarse cries of pain echoed through the mountains and died with their sources. A slow, meaningless death by burning alive. _All the best nightmare material_ , the Templar whined internally as she bolted to put a safe distance between her and Pride. She needed to work out a strategy for this.

Attacks were raining down on the demon, but only rare blows did really connect and even those, Tairinn realized with horror, did no harm to its thick hide. _The strongest armor_ , she remembered her Uncle’s lessons, _bears the Pride, the most humane of all demons in terms of wit and knowledge. It is immune to most of nature spells and it’s physical capabilities are nearly endless._

“Oh great, we’ll do it the hard way” she hissed furiously and closed her eyes for a moment, letting familiar but unintelligible as ever screeching in her head get a little closer to the surface. _I need to stop it to save my family,_ she thought fervently because after nearly twenty years with something else with her head Tairinn knew its ticks. _Family is important, family is in danger, need power, NOW._ She let the fear seep through her adrenaline induced calm and felt the Voice stir.

She must have been truly frightening in this state because the soldiers who saw her close onto the demon, ran. Not from Pride, not away from its whips and lightning balls, but from a human woman in Templar armor who was carrying a mark of the Fade. Men and women parted before her, scattering away from Tairinn’s path as she held her shield up to meet demonic attack with teeth bared in a feral grin and eyes burning with foreign, inhuman rage.

Pride thumped its foot on the shattered stone and lifted one of its paws to crush a puny worm daring to stand in its way. The roar nearly made Tairinn go deaf but she stood her ground and, when the claws of the demon fell on the shield, she let it slide down and struck. She was aiming to wound Pride in the paw, but barely landed a scratch onto its spiky surface, even with Voice now pushing her body to its limits. The beast moved gracelessly, charging past her, a bellowing laugh escaping its throat as it raised both paws to cast another lightning.ball.

She had to come up with something and quick, otherwise the battle outcome was already decided. Knowing full well she had no way to outrun Pride’s spell, Tairinn squared her shoulders and met the lightning on her shield with a harsh, demanding cry, “I negate!” The counter surged towards the violet spasm of the Fade brought to reality and unwound it mercilessly, cutting through the ties of magic. The lightning fell apart just before Tairinn’s nose, showering her shield with sharp white sparks.

The Negation took a lot out of her, already too tired from all the running and fighting of before, but it still saved her life and struck Pride, making it stagger back and roar in a sudden fit of fury. “I got him!” someone cried out and the demon smashed the offender in a blind rage, flattening what once was a man into the stone. Blood sprayed from under demon’s paw and something in Tairinn broke at the sight of it, but her training pushed her further, making her move and plan and… She finally knew what to do.

 

The Fade solidified under Negation and made Pride lose its advantage. The Templar caught a flash of the memory of battle at the forward camp gates: the interaction of the mark and the rift would destabilize the Fade. Could it inflict damage on the demon? Well, there was no time to run to Solas for consultation, especially since he was busy healing someone on the exact opposite side of the battlefield. Tairinn was on her own with her knowledge and assumptions now and the Voice, still too close to the surface of her personality, wouldn’t let her stop until the threat was eliminated. Or until they both died trying.

She ran to the statue base, using the blind rage Pride fell into as a distraction, and raised her hand with furiously glowing mark up. A flood of uncontrollable, incomprehensible power caught Tairinn and went right through her body thread by thread and, with as much confidence as she could muster, she pulled. It felt like she ripped her own arm out of the socket and there was a crackle in the distance, but the rift didn’t yield. Green mirror wavered and constricted at once, spitting out two Despair demons instead.

At the same time Pride howled and smashed at Andraste statue, crushing its midsection. With peripheral vision Tairinn could see the upper part of the statue starting to fall and she felt not a small amount of satisfaction, when it collapsed right onto Pride’s horned head, poking out at least three out of its numerous void-black eyes in the process. Apparently, the plan worked out somewhat.

Still, most of her attention was aimed at Varric, whose unprotected back became a target for the Despair. The Templar rushed to the rescue, scaling the fallen column like it was a training pole in the Monastery, and slammed her shield into what seemed to serve as demon’s head, effectively cutting it off. The shield got immediately covered with a thin crust of ice, but the momentum propelled Tairinn forward and she slammed her defense onto the ground on the other side of the column to break the extra weight off, cursing earnestly. “Go for a big one!” Something fell with a wet squelch behind her back and dwarven voice, grim and decisive this time, pushed her forward yet again.

She more felt than saw that Pride recovered from the backlash. The wet red stains at its feet had turned into pools long ago and even those soldiers, who survived the rampage and statue falling on them, were no longer able to damage the demon. It was time to try again.

The demon must have sensed her intent and her “I negate!” came out more like a pained moan when a lightning pierced her body, burning her flesh from the inside. Tairinn was on the verge of fainting from pain shock, but the Voice sang in her, high and demanding, healing damaged skin, and she did not let herself lose concentration. The power filled her again and the Templar pulled at the mess of the threads connecting her arm and the Fade. Another roar indicated that the demon was vulnerable while the rift froze above it, turning into a green, crooked mirror.

Barely having any power to move her legs, the warrior moved towards Pride, accompanied by an unbearably loud crescendo of the Voice. Tairinn had very little left in her and her defences were slipping, letting lyrium confuse her further, weaving into the song.

_“We are here… We have waited… We have slept...”_

“No!” she groaned with hatred and pierced the foot of the Pride with her sword, finally drawing what was there instead of blood. _Don’t have to stop now, can do anything, can… Why need the sword, I’ll rip this beast open with my bare hands! I can_ , Tairinn thought with a confidence she had not felt in ages. She could truly win this one, because she was the greatest, she was the only. She... Grinning ferally, the Templar almost released the hilt of her sword, but suddenly something flickered in the blade’s mirror. A reflection. A madman looked at Tairinn from the depths of steel, golden eyes lit with otherworldly fire. It was a dreadful sight, but what frightened her the most, finally breaking Pride’s hold, was the understanding. It was herself.

The weapon came out of the demon’s paw with a crack and the woman finally managed to inhale as she circled enraged beast clumsily. Her nose was bleeding again, if the taste of iron was anything to come by, and maybe her ears were too. Tairinn felt absolutely spent. Well, fuck the feeling, she _was_ spent. It was going to end now, one or another way, she understood quite clearly. Turning the sword blade down, she plunged it into the demon’s foot, and with a howl it began to fall to the side. _Powerful, strong, can do it, let the sword go… **Har'eva'in! Ro**_ ** _!_**

Only sixteen years of training had not allowed Tairinn to surrender to the will of the demon whose nature nearly got into her mind. That and another gibberish thrown at her by the Voice, insistent and enraged.  

“Close the rift!” Varric's cry knocked some sense into Tairinn, breaking the numbness that had seized her mind. She gathered what was left of her will and threw her left hand up with a shout that, it seemed, rattled the very skies.

“I negate!”

A wave of light burst from her palm and struck the rift with such force that the woman was lifted off the ground. Unable to endure the scorching pain that tore her hand to pieces, Tairinn almost gave up her struggle to aim the mark when the mouth of the rift shuddered and a ray of emerald green light shot from its depths directly at the Breach. It rumbled distantly and its slow but inevitable expansion halted, leaving a motionless vortex to hang over Thedas in a cloudy evening sky. Then everything became white for a moment and pain stopped.


	11. Three Days for Perspective Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We're not some Circle brats, Cass,” the Templar explained with uneasy smile, “we're trained to get shit done, whatever it takes...” Her eyes, steely with resolve, met Cassandra's grey ones and Tairinn added softly, only for two of them to understand, “...from us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY it is done. Can't say I'm really happy with how it turned out, but I blame Roderick cause he pisses me off. Also, the lack of feedback is kinda discouraging sometimes, the usual author thing, you know...  
> Anyway, enjoy chapter 11 and I will just sit here in the corner plotting some really important deaths >:D

Tairinn was woken by children’s laughter. High-pitched and carefree, it rang from somewhere far away like through cotton wool, mixing with the sound of hammer striking hot metal and market chatter. Then a bellowing voice came from the distance, growing louder and louder as its owner closed in.

“Get your lazy arse out of here, Lorene! Don’t you have work to do? I won’t pay if...” the last part of the threat got drowned in the white noise of market day and Trevelyan sighed inwardly. _Well, if this is the afterlife, it kinda sucks_ , she thought distantly but quickly reconsidered, marveling at the lack of pain that had seemed to become her constant companion in recent weeks.

She tried to wiggle her left hand in a slow, deliberate movement, afraid of both not feeling it at all and ending up in agony again. Shoulder first, then elbow, wrist, fingers… The arm was there and apparently intact, but familiar numbness and a steady trickle of power towards her palm told Tairinn that the Sphere of Annulment was up once more, feeding off her abilities. _So, Ianthe or Darius got me patched up. Bless the Maker for small miracles,_ she sighed and tried to make a fist. Then again. And again, but entirely unsuccessfully. Her best guess was that someone bandaged her arm, but before she could give it one more try, something creaked at the feet of whatever she’d been lying on.

A soft patter came closer and Tairinn cracked her left eye open just a bit. The sight she’d been met with nearly made her fight a smile. An elven girl, not older that eight, was creeping towards the bed she was currently in, with a big basket in her thin hands and huge concerned eyes trained on Tairinn’s still form. She gulped audibly, watching the woman’s chest rise and fall, and slowly bent to set the basket on the floor. Then something crashed into the wall outside with a loud echoing bang.

The sound startled Tairinn and she moved on pure instinct. Rolling off the bed she hurried to take a fighting stance and cover the girl with her body. Or she tried to. Her legs gave way instead and she sank to the floor with a low hoarse moan. It felt like she had been lying motionless for several days and now her numb body hardly even remembered how to move. All in all, Tairinn wasn’t in the best state for a fight.

“Oh, Milady is awake! Please forgive my clumsiness! I… I thought you were asleep and these...” Blinking owlishly, Tairinn raised her head only to see that the elf had fallen on her knees in front of her and was clutching the basket nervously. The girl nearly jumped when their eyes met and scrambled away, still holding on her delivery. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m all right.” Tairinn’s voice was rough from being silent for so long, but she saw such a primal fear in the eyes of a fragile creature before her - _oh hell, she’s just a kid!_ \- that Trevelyan made her best effort to speak as gently as possible. “I just woke up. Can you tell me what happened with the Breach?” she asked in her softest voice. In hindsight, maybe she had better not to speak about _that_ with horrified child, but it was too late. The elf hugged her knees tightly to her chest and started babbling nearly incoherently.

“They say you saved us, Milady! It was so silent and then - bang! The walls were shaking and I was so scared, so scared!” Tears started falling from her pale violet eyes, rolling down her small scrunched nose as she began rocking from side to side. “Mother says Andraste herself sent you to save us, Milady!”

 _Just what doctor ordered,_ Tairinn thought demurely as she stretched slowly to make sure her muscles had finally relaxed and were ready to obey her commands again, _a hysterical kid and fanatical parents. Great!_ Once she was satisfied with her own state, nearly naked bar some shorts and loose binds over her chest and left arm, she crawled to sit down in front of the wailing girl.

“Hey, it’s gonna be fine, all right? Hush,” she murmured softly, “The Breach is sealed? We’ll make sure it stays that way.”

“But it’s still up there!” the girl hiccuped nervously, and tucked a strand of dark copper, almost like Leliana’s, hair behind her ear. Tairinn was careful not to touch her though, feeling that the kid was not by small amount frightened despite her almost reverent address. “The Breach is still in the sky, Milady, but demons stopped falling,” she said a little calmer, “it stopped three days ago.”

Tairinn couldn’t refrain from a dark chuckle as her brows crept up to her hairline. _Three days? I’ve been sleeping for three frigging days? Best. Timing. Ever._ Anyway, the time was lost and the only thing left for now was to try to collect what had happened after she spaced out so graciously. Tairinn let out a long breath and finally asked the girl, “What is your name, kiddo?”

She tried to intone the question in a way Edna always did, gently but with a tint of warm humor, ignoring the pang of guilt at the thought of the woman. She didn't dare to think what her caretaker was feeling now as the news of the Conclave explosion no doubt had reached Ostwick. At least Edna was sensible enough to take every precaution in order to protect Mother from the news of her son’s most possible death.

Tairinn tried to smile at the elf and cocked her head to the side, watching her young visitor. Girl’s face was half hidden by a thick veil of messy hair, no longer than shoulder length. Her small nose, puffy from crying, and trembling lower lip she had bitten so strongly that there was a tiny droplet of blood sliding down her chin, were still visible from under the coppery strands. She was scaring Tairinn a little, as all children did, but this one was scared of her in return which… made chances for a coherent dialog somewhat slim.

“I...I am sorry, Milady, I should have told you earlier… I am Mira,” the girl mumbled suddenly, carefully not looking Tairinn in the eyes, and started sniffling again as her cheeks went red with embarrassment.

“Good. That’s a good name, Mira. And you can call me Tairinn, okay?” Trevelyan said in a hushed tone, hoping to calm the kid down. She placed her right hand onto her bare knees and turned it palm up in a gesture she hoped was reassuring. The left, however, remained curled in a tight fist at Tairinn’s side. All she could do at this point was hoping that the glow of the mark was hidden safely under the wraps that curled around her wounded forearm all the way from the elbow to the tips of middle and index finger like a snake. “I won’t be mad. Where I’m from, it’s a custom to call people by their name.”

 

The curiosity must have won over fear at that moment and Mira blinked her tears away to watch the big woman sitting in front of her inquisitively. She took a breath so deep it made her look like a blowfish and whispered cautiously, “Uh… Where are you from, Lady Tairinn?”

Trevelyan hummed thoughtfully, silently praying to anything, anyone not to spook the kid again. It seemed she won’t be able to persuade the girl to drop ‘lady’ any time soon without scaring her even more, so she preferred to ignore it from now and asked, “Ever heard of Wycome?”

Mira nodded seriously and gave her a shy smile. Relaxing finally, she all but slumped on the floor and tried to tuck the hair that had fallen on her face again behind a long tipped ear. It fell right back though and she huffed unhappily, already reaching in the pocket of her warm coat to pull out a thin leather cord. While she braided her hair quickly into a tight crown around her head, Tairinn took girl’s lapse of attention for an opportunity to get back to bed.

She stood up gingerly and fell onto the covers after two unsteady steps, rubbing her aching lower back with a groan. A familiar feeling in her bladder reminded the woman that she had a lot to cover after three day sleep, but it was still tolerable. She had a sneaking suspicion that either Darius or Ianthe had taken care of her body during that time. They had seen and done worse back in the days, anyway. Tairinn filed her needs for later and stretched carefully till something in her neck popped, letting the blood rush through the veins faster. _Oh, shite!_

As her vision cleared from a black blur of blood pressure change, she propped herself on both elbows, half sitting, half lying with her head against the wooden wall of the house. “So, Wycome,” she went on once Mira’s eyes were fixed on her again. “There’s a Circle and a Monastery ri-i-ight on its northern outskirts. Her Last Word’s the name.” She smiled dreamily at the memory of aged stone walls and overgrown backyard. “I take orders from its Revered Mother.”

“Ah… Lady Tairinn is a Sister?” Mira’s face was shining with barely restrained curiosity. “But you had big armor…” she thought out loud, oblivious to Tairinn’s wince at the mention of the Chantry. “Master Harritt, the blacksmith, has it now. They say the demon punched a hole through it!” The girl spread her hands nearly two feet wide and showed it to Tairinn almost accusingly.

“Well, I hope it wasn’t that big, kid, or I’ll never get my cuirass back,” Trevelyan chuckled and shook her head. “I’m a Templar, we serve the Chantry too.”

That broke the last of Mira’s reservations. Suddenly overjoyed, she cast all fears aside and bounced in her place impatiently, questions falling out of her mouth in a steady flow. “So you can fight? Like, for real? And can stop magic? And you have a _sword_?” She nearly whined the last one hopefully as her violet eyes bore holes in Tairinn’s face.

“Sword, yes, shield too,” the woman laughed, letting her deep voice fill the room. “Had though. Lost them in the explosion.” She covered annoyance at herself with a wink and asked her youthful companion, “Can Master Blacksmith forge me a new one, how’d ya think, Mira?”

“He’s very, very strong!” the girl exclaimed happily, her hands flapping in the air in agitation, “He can make anything! A lock, an armor, a pan, you name it!” This prioritization wrung another laugh out of Tairinn and she had to wipe the tears that prickled at the corners of her eyes.

“I think I’d do without a lock and a pan for now, kid,” she said with a voice filled with a good humor, “but I could use some armor and a good sword for sure. Show me the way, will you?”

Something, and, fortunately, not the Voice this time, was telling Tairinn that status quo had changed since she had collapsed in the ruins. _Since what local children call me ‘Milady’, claim me a saviour and shit… What the? Whose idiotic idea is this even?_ Still, it seemed the execution wasn’t in the immediate future anymore and that meant Tairinn could take care of pressing matters first.

The girl jumped up, nodding excitedly, ready to break into a run, but Tairinn stopped her with a smile and a question, “Did you see around a woman with white hair? She wears a braid, like you, this long.” She stood up and waved her hand a couple inches above her hip. “She’s usually with a man, dark like me and very chatty.”

“Lady Ianthe and Master Darius are staying with Adan, the alchemist, you know.” Mira pointed at the window on the wall opposite from the bed and said something else, but Tairinn didn’t hear he anymore.

She stood ramrod straight when the name rang across the room, as if struck by lightning spell, her eyes unseeing. No, her Aidan died and she had to accept it, to stop hoping for a miracle to happen. _Face it,_ she ordered herself, _you won’t get him back. Get a fucking grip!_

“...and they are helping with wounded now since Lady Tairinn got better,” Mira continued brightly, oblivious to Tairinn’s suddenly darkened mood. “Master Darius ate raw crystal grace yesterday and kept singing the Canticle of Threnodies for the most of the night. Master Adan was really angry and said things I’m not permitted to repeat. Ever,” she shook her head in disapproval that was copied from someone of Chantry folk, Tairinn could swear. As the woman facepalmed in exasperation at her squadmate’s antics, Mira confirmed her suspicions by going on about what else Chancellor Roderick declared ‘exceptionally unbecoming of young children’.

“Well, at least in something we have the same stance,” Tairinn muttered grudgingly. “He’s in the village? Still locking horns with Cassandra?” That question, for some reason, set the girl off suddenly.

The tears were back in her eyes as she began rushing about the room. “Oh, how could I forget!” she wailed, “Lady Cassandra said she needs to see you… She said 'at once’!” Mira kept running around frantically, looking for something, but then her eyes locked on the basket lying forgotten on the floor and she grasped at it again, holding it close to her chest.

Tairinn just stood there in confusion, her dark honey irises following girl’s panicked fussing, but otherwise unmoving. She could understand Mira’s fear of Cassandra: even their short acquaintance showed that the woman was scary as hell when enraged, but Trevelyan couldn't imagine the Seeker taking her anger on a child. Was she mistaken in her assessment of Cassandra's character? Could she hurt the kid over something like this or Mira's fear was aimed at someone else?

 _Nah, she wouldn't,_ Tairinn thought at last and reached out with her right hand, clasping Mira’s shoulder lightly. “Hey, slow down a bit, kid, you'll get hurt running 'round like that,” she said softly and ruffled her braided hair affectionately. “Tell me where’s Cass and I'll talk to her.”

“Lady Cassandra is in the Chantry,” Mira replied in a clipped voice, “she had been arguing with Chancellor Roderick for three hours now, they even scared away most of the Sisters. Chancellor is very upset with Lady Tairinn being here and I spent so much time…” She hiccuped again and tried to scrub big, sparkling tears away. “I'm going to be punished…”

“That's nonsense,” Tairinn scoffed and nudged the girl to watch up, pressing on her jaw lightly with calloused fingertips. “No one's getting punished 'cause of me, kiddo. So hush now and tell Cass I'll be there as soon as I find something to put on and feel steady enough to go, deal?”

Truth be told, Tairinn had no desire to get in between the dick of the Chancellor and without a doubt murderous by this point Cassandra. _Three hours, my ass, how come she hasn’t killed him already?_ So, Cassandra was to be freed from the clutches of Mr. I'm-the-Boss-Now as soon as possible, preferably before she snapped his neck. Still, another stand-off with the man could cause his premature and quite expected by this point death if he tried as much as to lay a finger on the small elf that was staring up at the woman helplessly from her not taller than 3’3 foot slouched posture.

“Yes, Milady.” The girl sighed resolutely and went for the door, leaving the basket on the floor again with mumbled 'please take these’. Not really knowing what to say to a closed door, Tairinn grabbed the box made of rough wicker twigs and took a moment to finally inspect the place she had spent these last days.

 

The house was a small one: a single room with a sturdy old bed, filled to the brim bookcase, crackling fireplace and a table littered with papers on its right just under the second window. The floor felt cold even through a thick worn wooly carpet and Tairinn tiptoed gracelessly to an armchair padded with soft-looking red material only to climb into it with her feet tucked safely under her butt. She groaned contentedly and shuffled through the papers absently until some crumpled notes attracted her attention.

Two sported all familiar jerky handwriting, no doubt Darius’, and went on about Tairinn's condition on days 14 and 15 of Drakonis, 9:41, respectively, while the last, _today's meaning it's Friday 16th_ , she counted, was barely decryptable. Adan, the name came to her in Mira's trembling voice, the alchemist. Not really interested in what he had to say about her fucked up body, the woman pushed the notes away and scrambled out of the armchair to find something to wear only to stumble upon a lute and a cage with red-eyed raven in it.

The bird was silent through the whole Mira ordeal, Tairinn realized, which was uncommon. Postal crows, cats, dogs… hell, even most horses had always been wary of her and the Voice’s presence, but this one clearly wasn’t. It just sat on its perch, staring at the Templar with unblinking, clever eyes, as if waiting for the letter to carry. _Shit, the letter!_

She fell back into the warm embrace of the armchair, sifting through papers on the deck for a clean piece. It appeared to be a bit away from the other mess, held in place with a closed inkpot. The quill, simple gray thing, was there too, sharp and ready. Tairinn thanked both Varric and Leliana mentally, not sure who of the two came with the idea, but if anyone asked, her dibs were on Varric. The dwarf was the one she asked to inform Ethan if she died, he would be the one to find Tairinn a way to send a word to her family.

 

> _Ethan,_
> 
> _I don’t have much time, but you should know this, your wayward sister is still alive and kicking._
> 
> _Tai_

She blinked at uneven lines and groaned. If anything, this antic would get her in even more trouble once her brother has a chance to lay his hands on Tairinn’s neck. She combed her hair with half hidden in bandages fingers and tapped the paper with the quill in frustration, leaving blotches of black ink here and there. Explanations were long overdue, anyway.

 

> _Okay, big brother, now to serious business. The Conclave ended up one huge blood rite, just there, right under our noses. Can you believe it? Cause I still have troubles and me, yours truly, apparently was the one to break the spell. Literally._
> 
> _Hundreds dead, most of my squad included. It’s down to me, Darius and Ianthe now. Aidan was with me and now he's… No, we're not going there._
> 
> _The Divine was used as a power source, Eth. They knew what they were doing. The rite broke the fucking Veil, now there's a hole in the sky and Maker knows how many out there in the world. Demons, brother, are still creepy but at least something stays the same. I pray for blissful routine to swallow me whole. Also, I have the hole in my hand too and it's connected to the Fade itself. I close those lesser holes now. No one calls me Riftbuster yet?_
> 
> _People are really on edge here, Eth. I met the Seeker, she'd almost fried my blood but we're kinda good now. I guess. She promised there'll be a trial._
> 
> _I'm staying here in Haven for time being, someone has to deal with this shit and I thought, why not me? I know you'd say this is a bad idea, but you're not here to lecture me, brother, so stuff it and make something up for Mother’s peace of mind. I'll make sure family name isn't dragged in whatever happens now for as long as possible._
> 
> _P.S. Experiment is still going and, by the way, I met Varric. He's really worried about Beardy, so send the dick a memo to stay out of this and Ferelden, I know you keep in touch with Birdy. Tell them Anderfels has great landscapes in spring or the stars shine really bright in Rivain, whatever, just MAKE THEM STAY AWAY!_
> 
> _Miss you,_
> 
> _Tai_

 

She wanted to reread it, but the memory of Mira's tear stricken face resurfaced oh so in time and Tairinn gave up. Brother would worry anyway, no matter how many times she crossed out expletives and said she’s okay.

She got out of the comfortable softness of the armchair and crouched in front of the cage measuring the raven with a nervous stare. The bird just stared back, nonplussed, and, when Tairinn's right eye twitched slightly, it reached its leg out towards the woman. Tairinn could swear on her gray hair, it's red eyes were laughing.

“Markham. Chantry. Ethan.” She gave a clipped instruction and placed the paper folded gently into a scroll in a small pouch on raven's leg. The bird croaked once, hoarse and dull, and stepped on Tairinn's wrist regally, allowing her to take it out of the cage and to the window. “Confidential,” the woman added hurriedly, hoping no one would intercept the letter and connect the dots. Keren and his boys needed his peace.

The raven croaked once again, nicking her skin with its claws slightly, and took off. Tairinn followed the direction of its flight bound north-east towards the Marches and mentally adjusted her inner compass.

 

She roused herself and finally opened the basket Mira had left her with some hesitation. A clean shirt and thin pants were stacked there neatly, neighboring with new bandages and  underwear. The clothes were clean and smelled faintly of lavender, reminding Tairinn of her childhood in Trevelyan estate and earlier days in the Monastery when she was still a recruit. Officers of higher rank usually tended for their clothes themselves and spent no time on pleasantries like dried herbs.

Tairinn dressed quickly, her movements precise and sufficient after years in the field, fished her boots from under the bed and inspected her temporary home one last time. The place was nice, but one thing that she desperately needed was absent and it was making her shifty.

Her armor was elsewhere at the blacksmith’s if Mira’s words were true. _Have to pay a courtesy call to Master Harritt and soon_ , she thought, tightening the ties on shirt’s collar, ready to leave the warmness of house for cold mountain winds. She wasn’t planning to go back here, not really. If the army was quartered in the village, then there must be tents and it would be much less problematic and much more cosier among other soldiers. That is, if Cass would let her crash there.

Tairinn opened the door and took a step outside but had to shield her eyes immediately, blinded by the assault of impossibly bright morning sunshine. “What the...” she whispered in horror, staggering back a little, when her vision came back to normal. “Andraste’s holy knickers, what the fuck?”

Narrow alley she entered was crammed with villagers, Chantry folk and soldiers. They filled the space to the brim, barely leaving enough for Tairinn to squeeze through the crowd towards what looked like a local main street. _Either to the Chantry, or directly to the stake, no third option here_ , she thought grimly, barely hiding a frown. Still, there was no going back now, so she took another step forward.

 _Maker, tell me I am dreaming and this is just a weird lyrium induced nightmare,_ she prayed silently when two warriors in burly cuirasses moved the people away forcibly and stopped before her. They were completely hidden under so new armor sets, the sun reflected from its polished surfaces as if it were mirrors. Tairinn took in their imposing stances and straightened herself, quirking her scarred brow questioningly, suddenly aware of her state of near undress. _No way I can outrun these pals..._ Well, if they came to lead her for execution, she wouldn't give the onlookers the chance to see her panic.

“Gentleman, shall we?” she asked with as much dignity as she could master and watched with morbid fascination as their gauntlets struck the metal of cuirasses in a military salute. The sound of metal clashing filled the air for a split second and then exalted cries broke out around her.

“It's her! The Herald!”

“Andraste herself sent her here to save us!”

“Herald of Andraste! The Prophetess opened up the Veil to lead her here!”

 _What the frigging fuck,_ Tairinn stood amidst all the preaching, unable to contain her shock anymore. _Who came up with this nonsense?_ It seemed either these folks had gone crazy in three days she'd been out cold, or there was a paradigm shift of enough magnitude to turn her from the number one suspect into a premature saint candidate. Too much 'ors’.

She put on her best mask of pure benevolence with some effort and took another step forward. The sea of people parted immediately, creating a live corridor, and she entered it with a bounce in her step as if it was the most natural thing to do even though her body gave her one more reminder that a small hut with a diamond shaped window was much more preferable at the moment. Still, Tairinn kept on smiling and nodding to unfamiliar faces on her way through the crowd and to the Chantry building.

“She made the Breach stop growing,” clerics whispered as the Templar passed them at the stairs to the second level of the village. Well, at least someone still could use proper words. Though the day when Chantry people were the easiest to understand was absolutely to go down it Tairinn's personal history book.

“Best of luck to you, Milady! With rifts, that is,” came the low rumble from one of the soldiers that was following her at arm's length. Then the man stopped at the inner gate and another guard took his position.

“There's been… attempts,” the newcomer explained, visibly shivering in his armor, a bit too big for him in Tairinn's opinion.

“Huh?” She could guess. People don't usually tend to take such shocks as hole in the sky lightly. No wonder someone tried to get rid of her since she had been the one to blame from the beginning, grand Fade escapes and all. Also, if there were any mages in Haven… Well, she wouldn't exactly blame them, but still being alive felt great for the most part.

“On your life,” the soldier confirmed Tairinn's suspicions, “four times. But worry not, Milady, we've got them and Lady Leliana took this matter under her personal control.”

“Ah, that's great, innit?” Tairinn nodded absently, trying to decipher the whispers that were coming from a group of young Sisters. They were watching her cautiously and with a great amount of fear hidden behind their fake smiles. You learn to tell when someone lies or really fears you fast in Circles. These three were scared shitless.

“...heresy, Allene, and you know it!”

“Chancellor will deal with this, I am sure.”

“We shall not sway from the path of our Prophetess, Camille. We will endure.”

“Look at this,” man's deep voice boomed suddenly from quartermaster's tent, attracting Tairinn's attention. “You say this’s a woman? No, mate, this pal ain't no woman, have you seen him crush that demon? And he's a flat chest, mate…” She had to fake a cough to refrain from laughing out loud at this one. The man, whoever he was, sounded so sure she even thought about going back to impersonating Ethan for a second.

But the tents gave way to a small plaza in less than three dozen steps and Tairinn finally came to a halt in front of the old wooden doors of the Chantry that had certainly seen better days. As she took the last breath before storming in, cold mountain wind swept through the village, bringing her someone's question, “With most Revered Mothers dead, who will lead us now?” And it was a perfectly valid question, but the one no one had the answer for. The only thing that was a bit uplifting in this situation was that Roderick, whose voice came distant from the building, would never have the Sunburst Throne for himself.

 

“The prisoner must be sent to Val Royeaux immediately!” _Ugh, he's totally gonna overwork his vocal cords,_ Tairinn thought hopefully, slipping into a dimly lit hall of the Chantry. _Maybe I'll have some peace then._

“I am convinced of her innocence, Chancellor. She gave her all to close the Breach.” _Well, thanks, Cass. That's good to know even though it didn't work out._

“She failed to do so! The Breach is still there, Seeker. It must have been her plan all along and now we all are going to die.” Tairinn groaned at his stubbornness and the sound immediately echoed through the hall, fading in the darkness of the high ceiling. The man wouldn’t stop until he sees her head on the pike, even though she had already proved her usefulness. _Idiot_.

“Stop this, Chancellor. You are making a fool of yourself.” Cassandra seemed to be on the verge of homicide by this point, so Tairinn decided to take the matter in her own hands and gripped the handle of a small door with her unmarked hand just as Roderick snapped at Nevarran again.

“It is not up to you to decide, Seeker,” he shot back. “It is, however, your duty to obey the will of the Chantry!”  

“Ah, dear Chancellor, have you been named the Divine during my absence?” Tairinn’s voice was gentle as she entered a tiny room occupied by enormous table that barely left any place for seething Cassandra, thoughtfully silent Leliana and pacing Chancellor. All eyes immediately fixed on her tall figure and she squared her shoulders, preparing herself for a battle of wits. “Since when you know the will of the Chantry better than the Seeker, its righteous protector? Or are you the Right Hand of the Divine now?”

“You have no word in this,” the man spat out, baring his teeths. Bleary eyed, red nosed and full of his holier-than-thou attitude, he really was even more repulsive than she remembered. “Chain her!” he ordered suddenly to two Templars that guarded the entrance, fully armored but without helmets or any sign of weapons. At least, those not acquainted with these two would think so.

Ianthe stared back at Roderick with the same indifference she usually tasted new poisons with, her dark crimson eyes unblinking. Darius simply leaned on the wall, showing his defiance.

“Howdy, Lieutenant?” he asked, ignoring Chancellor’s outraged stuttering. His warm brown eyes were carefully inspecting her face for any sign of physical pain.

“Ah, here you two are,” Tairinn hid a smile, relieved to see her squadmates free and well. She too chose to pay no mind to Roderick’s incensed hissing. _This means war, you moron,_ she thought and placidly let Darius take the bandages off her hand to examine the mark.  “I’ll manage. Kirkwall was worse.”

“It sure was, I had to hold your intestines from falling out while Keren stitched you back together. Unforgettable experience,” the man replied snidely, poking Tairinn’s forearm where the glowing scar crossed veins, nearly splitting them open. “Any pain?”

“Nah, the Sphere blocks everything,” she grumbled, not really wanting to recall that particular feeling of kidney or whatever it had been slipping out through a hole in her side, and tried to change the subject. “Do I need to know why you were trippin’ on crystal grace this very night?”

“Good for breaking fever and dealing with burns,” the Antivan bit back without real heat and let her hand go. “You’re good.”

“Whatever, just keep your mouth shut next time you get high,” Tairinn said tiredly and turned back to the audience, who were watching the scene before them with a mix of disbelief on Cassandra's part, understanding on Leliana’s and disgust on Roderick’s.

“We're not some Circle brats, Cass,” the Templar explained with uneasy smile, “we're trained to get shit done, whatever it takes...” Her eyes, steely with resolve, met Cassandra's grey ones and Tairinn added softly, only for two of them to understand, “...from us.”

The Seeker nodded jerkily. She knew, of course, that some Monasteries kept their training regimens closer to those she had to go through at some point in her life before becoming Seeker than usual Chantry business. She also knew that Templars were, even if no one really spoke about it, expendables. Which meant Tairinn and her comrades were trained to push their limits, both of body and mind, and endure the consequences as they saw fit as long as their mission was accomplished. Sometimes that meant finding peace in a bottle, sometimes, as it appeared to be in Darius’ case, in recreational use of questionable herbs.

“You may leave now,” she told the duo tiredly and they saluted dutifully, then the Antivan took a frivolous bow and pulled the albino out of the room with a wink. Cassandra watched them go silently until the door clicked and then turned her attention back to the matters of much greater importance. “We must decide our course of actions,” she said with a sigh, placing both of her hands on the table, and closed her eyes.

“The… person, who is responsible for the explosion could die there,” Leliana spoke up from her corner of the room, “even though I think it is highly unlikely. His allies, however, could survive and even be among us now.” She set her stormy eyes on the Chancellor and went on oh so very gently, “No outsider could get to Most Holy so easily. She was betrayed by someone she knew, possibly, personally.”

“Are you… Are you insinuating…” Chancellor’s offended voice filled the room, making Tairinn cringe from she volumes he could produce. “You say _this_ is innocent, but I am a suspect?” The man shoved his index finger into Tairinn's chest with so much force, she barely managed to get away in time, awed by his performance. _Worthy of Orlesian theater, no doubt._

“You, dear Chancellor, and many others.” Cassandra sized the man with an indignant glare. “As of Lieutenant Tairinn, she proved her willingness to stop the madness that descended on us. She stopped Breach growth. In this darkest hour she must have been sent to us by Maker's providence.” The words rang through the tiny room as Leliana bowed her head in a silent prayer while both Roderick and Tairinn stood speechless, staring at Cassandra as if she'd grown a second head.

Tairinn recovered from shock first. This decision, she had made it long ago and wasn't about to back down now. “Whatever happens, we're in this together,” she said resolutely and took a step forward, splaying her fingers on top of the wooden table. The mark was glowing emerald from under her palm like a giant firefly caught in a cage, a constant reminder of irreversible change to her body, a promise of war.

“It isn't up to any of you to decide!” the man protested weakly, his voice thin and broken as he watched Leliana place a thick tome bound in leather and capped with silver in the middle of the table for all of them to see. He had already lost this battle but was yet to understand what was to come next.

 

Tairinn couldn't tear her eyes from a discolored book cover. She didn’t know the contents, but the symbol… All familiar, it bore slight differences from the Eye of the Seekers. Tairinn, however, knew them by heart since she had been seven. Her heart missed a beat.

It was an exhilarating moment and she felt numb and deaf at once, faced with the tome that no doubt held stories of warriors she had dreamt about all her childhood - Inquisition of old. And yes, she wasn’t seven anymore and tales got marred by harsh reality once Tairinn gave her vows and started her training at the Monastery, but she could understand the importance of the moment nevertheless.

First Inquisition was ruthless, the last resort and a knife in the gut of cultists and demonic threat, but they fought to protect the world when no one else did. Maybe it was exactly what the world needed now, a third power, not Chantry-led Order, not rebelling Circles, but a new, at least partially independent side. Tairinn had already given her agreement to help with the Breach, but for this chance, no matter how childish it seemed, to join Inquisition, to see a dream come true, she would have stayed anyway.

“We both know what this is, Roderick,” Cassandra stated grimly, “what power this edict gives us. From this very moment I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

There were no fanfares, no lightning from above or silver lining. The moment of thrilling, glorious euphoria came and went, leaving three women in its wake to watch Chancellor storm out of the room with curses and promises of Maker's punishment.

When the door slammed shut behind his back, Cassandra sank on her knees and exhaled shakily. She looked weary to the bone and her hands were trembling. _As if she carries the weight of the world on her shoulders,_ Tairinn thought and squeezed around the monstrous table to drop on the floor beside Nevarran.

“No resources, no army, no influence… Some are talking 'bout heresy already and Chantry won't support us for sure.” She propped her head on one knee and grinned wickedly. “But, in the brighter note, we've got a reputation to uphold now! By the way I can spin some wild ballads, if need be.”

Cassandra made an exasperated sound that was as close to a groan, as it was to a laugh, and stood up, pulling Tairinn with her. “We don't really have a choice but to do what Most Holy wanted us to.”

“She left us this edict,” Leliana spoke, thoughtful, “and we will honor her last wish. We will do right by her.”

Tairinn watched both women for a moment, meeting their gazes, and felt her uncertainty, her discontent with her life disappear. Something new, unnamed but strong was rising in its wake. She took a chance once again back there in the Temple, as she had always done in her not so short but eventful life, and from this point there was no going back, not until the mark on her hand disappeared along with the hole in the sky and those responsible for it were put to justice.

Tairinn touched the old tome with her fingertips and asked with determination, “How do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are unintended, but if you see something that is really out of place, please let me know in comments or through [my tumblr](http://away-with-eastern-wind.tumblr.com/)  
> Thanks for reading and if you liked it please drop some feedback!


	12. Masks, Old and New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How’re you?” Varric asked simply, ignoring the attitude. “Dealing with all this I mean?”  
> “I'm alive, which is good. Still glowing, which is… utter bullshittery.” Tairinn squeezed her eyes shut and swore some more. And then some more. When her throat ran dry, she cracked one of her eyes open, showing the world pitch black darkness with no trace of usual amber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not even a month! I'm making progress! Also, hey, Mags, you're in here!

“I suggest, we start with introductions, My Lady.” A soft voice rich with Antivan accent came from an inconspicuous door, hidden in the farthest corner of the room. It opened without a sound, letting in Cullen and an unfamiliar young woman clad in expensive and absolutely stunning gold adorned outfit that complimented her complexion greatly. Her curly brown hair was braided into something Tairinn couldn’t dream to pull off even in her brightest of days and she looked like someone who’d been at the royal court just five minutes ago.

 _Maybe it’s the nose. Or the posture,_ Tairinn thought, mesmerized, before she caught herself staring. She cleared her throat awkwardly, fighting the blush that threatened to spread on her cheeks, and turned her attention to the fellow warrior quickly, hoping with all she got for no one to witness her… moment of weakness.

“Glad to see you alive, Commander,” she said hastily. The man nodded in greeting and shook right hand she offered with a smile before making a beeline for Leliana, who watched the scene with amusement. Tairinn ignored the knowing smirk the Left Hand of the Divine threw her way and bowed to the nameless woman with a flourish.

“Lieutenant Tairinn of Her Last Word at your service,” she murmured, once again omitting her last name, even though it was untruthful on her part. Templars were notorious for their naming patterns after all and Tairinn hoped to keep family out of all this Inquisition business for as long as possible. _Have to adjust my manners too,_ she realized just in time to stop herself from reaching out to kiss woman's knuckles. But the latter either didn't notice, or didn't care.

“Josephine Montilyet, Inquisition's Ambassador,” the Antivan offered with a similar bow. “I am most pleased to meet you, Lady Tairinn.” Templar's cheeks grew hot and she sputtered something in response, backing away to Cassandra's side. _No need to change my manners if I keep acting like a fool,_ she berated herself and closed her eyes to concentrate on what newcomers had to say.

“Now, let us discuss our options...”

 

The next hour or two were spent in what Tairinn's nerdy brother called 'creative rage’. Page after page was filled with neat lines of noble-speak, written by a steady hand of newborn Inquisition's Ambassador. Some papers then were burnt immediately, leaving only ashes in their wake, some were vandalized by smeared with ink Leliana, Tairinn and Cullen and only those approved by all five got to Cassandra who carefully dried every sheet and sorted them into different batches.

“They're not going to agree, Commander. I doubt they would even listen to us,” Tairinn droned on tiredly as Cullen insisted they needed to contact the Order for the fourth time in last hour. “Upper ranks are either too stuck up to listen, or would turn on us as soon as the news of Inquisition reaches them. I bet Monasteries could help, but as far as I know the only one in Ferelden had been leveled during the Blight and other countries must have their people spread too thin already.”

“Mages are an option too.” And here was Leliana, adding fuel to the fire. “Enough power poured into the seal can overwhelm the Breach,” she explained as if it was the most evident thing in the world and she spent years closing holes in the sky.

“Is this Solas’ idea?” Cullen shook his head in disapproval. “The rite to make this work without blowing half of Frostbacks up would be extremely complicated, even one line of the seal done wrong can do that.” He watched Leliana’s eyes widen with understanding and nodded, “Exactly. Even if we somehow find no less than fifty _experienced_ mages that can work together seamlessly, we won’t be able to control everyone when the rite starts.”

“Many pretty good opportunities to fuck shit up, don’t you think?” Tairinn muttered, imagining the possibilities.

“That’s why we need Templars!” Oh no, Cullen really was going to be insufferable about this. “Trained for teamwork, able to suppress magic rather than fill up already overflown with power Breach… That’s what the Order is for!”

“And look how much good it have done in recent years...” Leliana clearly wasn’t going to back down on this too and it made Tairinn thinking. Her fierce support of things magi was evident even though the woman had no lasting connection to the Fade, which usually meant… friends or family. Tairinn bit her lip, filing the information for later and spoke up again before their brainstorm session became a crime scene.

“You’re right, both of you!” she straightened and stretched till something in her neck popped. “Both mages and Templars could hypothetically, I stress, hypothetically help seal the Breach. However,” she measured her somewhat quieted companions with a hard stare, “we don’t have anything to convince them to join us instead of declaring a holy war upon the Inquisition!”

“Then we shall appeal to both sides’ common sense and act in accordance to their replies.” Josephine was the first to break uneasy silence that filled the room. “We have written the letters anyway,” she reasoned, shuffling through the notes in her clipboard, and opened her mouth to say something else when a loud growl resonated through the room like a thunder.

All eyes immediately fixed on Cullen, his cheeks reddening with blush, but Tairinn’s stomach seemed to finally catch up with her being awake and joined Commander’s, warbling like a bird in spring. Or rather roaring like an angry bear. Josephine coughed to cover her laughter and Cassandra, practical as ever, declared the meeting adjourned.

“Enough of this,” she sighed, rubbing her temples, “we all need to eat something to function properly. Especially those who have slept through three days worth of food.” Tairinn chuckled at the jibe and winked at the Seeker.

Soft chatter broke out immediately after, mostly about what’s served at the tavern today, and she snatched three sheets of paper from the stacks Cassandra had taken care of, wishing to deal with at least some important matters first. Two went to Leliana, the third she gave to Cullen, still a little pink form previous embarrassment.

“Lady Josephine is right, we have no other choice but to try. I guess there are two more crows available to… wherever we need these to be sent?” Tairinn frowned thoughtfully. Her knowledge of Ferelden, its geography and overall state of affairs was somewhat lacking, so she simply waved her marked hand in the air absently, making shadows and green light dance in half-lit room. “And let’s pin the announcement somewhere too,” she pointed at Cullen’s paper. Her stomach growled louder.

“Let’s go already before you collapse from starvation and I have to carry you. Again.” Cassandra rolled her eyes and marched out of the door, dragging Tairinn with her by the elbow and ignoring her impressed “Really? Tell me more!” completely.

 

After a hearty lunch in a filled to the brim tavern everybody left to mind their own business, leaving Tairinn with nothing better to do than wander the village that looked significantly homier once no one was staring at her with hatred or delirious admiration. It seemed like most of the locals were hanging out at the Chantry plaza now, gossiping about Inquisition and what it meant to their wellbeing. Tairinn, on the other hand, was too cold and was having none of that, so she decided to meet the mysterious blacksmith that could make locks, pans and armor and collect what had been salvaged of her Templar attire.

She was walking down the street towards the first tier of the settlement, humming ‘Mabari Andraste’, the lyrics and badly transcribed tune for which she found stapled to the tavern wall, when a nauseatingly disgusting smell filled her nose. Then she saw Varric. The man was rummaging in a huge sack, fishing for some potatoes and something carrot looking but dangerously purple. He went for his dagger to peel the thing, but saw Tairinn too and beckoned her closer with a smile that did not reach his tired eyes.

She crossed the distance hastily and circled the bonfire overhung with a pot of boiling something to stand on its windward side. The smell didn’t dissipate but became more bearable, so she took one wary breath, greeted the dwarf with a wave of her hand and sank on the cold, snow covered ground. The man nodded and took to peeling, letting her relax somewhat, but when both purple whatever and potatoes disappeared in the pot, Varric wiped his hands with snow and sat on the opposite side of the fire.

“What?” Tairinn grumbled after he simply watched her for a couple of minutes. She felt irritation starting to boil in her, threatening to overflow the pit of her patience. There was a big headache incoming for sure.

“How’re you?” he asked simply, ignoring the attitude. “Dealing with all this I mean?”

“I'm alive, which is good. Still glowing, which is… utter bullshittery.” Tairinn squeezed her eyes shut and swore some more. And then some more. When her throat ran dry, she cracked one of her eyes open, showing the world pitch black darkness with no trace of usual amber.

Varric, to his credit, did not even flinch. Well, after Kirkwall he might have had some ideas and him being friends with Keren, _Maker make the moron’s ears burn,_ kind of made the dwarf less responsive to strange behaviors. So instead of making a fuss he simply asked, “Should I write it down for posterity? Cursing with the Herald of Andraste, Book One?”

“About that...” Tairinn’s eyelid fell back shut and she hugged her knees with a groan. “Whose idea?”

“The village is full of Chantry folk and pilgrims, you tell me, Lady. As if there were other options since you’ve literally fallen from the sky at the feet of Prophetess’ statue. The second time I mean.” His voice was sweeter than Antivan wine though, so Tairinn knew the man was finding the situation at least somewhat hilarious. “One day you’re the number one suspect, today help founding a new religious movement. I always knew you were a wild one!”

Tairinn threw her head back as if to watch at the green vortex moving slowly in the sky, but her eyes stayed closed. “Still better than rotting up there among corpses and crack,” she spit out angrily. That made Varric raise a brow.

“So lyrium is not your kind of buzz.” That wasn’t a question, not really. But it also posed a problem.

“Burn it with fire,” she laughed darkly in response.

“I’m not sure if we’re talking of the red kind?” he said nonchalantly, but Tairinn felt her muscles tense. _Just how much he knows?_

“There’s nothing kind about it,” she tried for sarcasm, but they both knew the dangers the substance posed. She liked Varric and did not mean him harm, so when her mood plunged from ‘ready to punch some assholes’ to a whole new depths of ‘fill me up with either something hard or highly alcoholic’, she tried to change the subject instead of instinctively telling him to fuck off. “Why you’re still here?”

The man contemplated his answer for a couple of moments. “Cause you’re not the only one with conscience and sense of duty here, Lady. Hundreds dead and I was this,” he must have gestured something, “this close. Now someone has to deal with the hole in the sky and find a culprit. I think you’d do great, but even you need someone to watch your back.” Tairinn’s eyes snapped open at that, still night-black, but with a thin rim of gold where her pupils used to be now, and Varric threw her a wink. “Especially you, my friend.”

“I’m just helping Cass and everyone,” she tried to brush him off, although there was no real heat in her words.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Lady. Whatever helps.” The dwarf chuckled lowly and stood up to stir the stew. “Want some?”

The wind chose this moment to change direction and she caught a whiff of an impossibly disgusting smell. It was even worse than Darius’ healing salve from Kingsway of 9:38 and that one made even Ianthe scrunch her nose. _Is he cooking bad cheese there or something, how do people stand it,_ she thought fighting with the bile rising in her throat and gulped, “Nah, thanks. I’m gonna go find blacksmith now. See ya.”

“Your loss,” he shrugged and dug into the stew with gusto while she retreated hastily down the road, following the sound of metal clashing.

 

When large wooden gates of the main village entrance loomed over Tairinn's head, she paused, taking in the sight before her. Haven changed significantly since she saw it for the first time and a huge valley surrounded by uneven circle of mountains was bustling with life.

Tents had spread everywhere, barely leaving any space for training grounds, spilling onto roads, climbing the shores of a frozen lake. The lake itself looked quite deep and the ice must have been at least about a meter thick, so it was no wonder some of more risky recruits were sparring here and there, slipping and falling.

 _At least we won't have water shortages,_ Tairinn mused, passing by a couple of warriors going through a very familiar routine. She could recognize fellow Templars even if they got rid of their sigils and flashy armor because some stances you take only when you are trained to shield yourself from acid and elemental damage, and with war raging maybe she had to check these guys intentions for being here...  _But so can Commander,_ she reasoned and simply walked past to where a plume of smoke was rising from a soot stained chimney. She really wanted to get her armor back and absolutely intended to avoid any chance of being recognized as a Trevelyan, because when you're a Trevelyan, there are bound to be relatives of every sorts anywhere you go.

 

“Good day to you, good Sir,” Tairinn croaked pushing through the cloud of vapor towards a man who was tempering a dagger blade, “won't you know by chance some Master Harritt? One young lady advised me to find him if I need a lock. Or armor.” She watched him turn, red moustache furrowed and bald head glinting in the sun, with a teasing smile.

“You have found him, boy,” he laughed, wiping his forehead with a wet cloth and smearing soot all over his face. He took a step from the shadow of the workshop roof to get a better look at his guest and choked on his next words when Tairinn's unbound glowing hand came into his view. “I'm sorry, Lady Herald, haven't recognized you at first,” he coughed out but she shushed him silent.

“I sometimes don't recognize me too, Master, so don't you worry,” she smiled again and went for a handshake. “Call me Tairinn or Lieutenant if you wish, please, but let's leave the pleasantries and heralds for our adorable Ambassador.”

“That we'll do,” the man chuckled, put at ease by her friendliness, and beckoned the woman to follow him to the armory. “You’re here to pick up your armor, I guess? Good work that was, shame it got ruined,” he praised, diving into the crates that were stacked haphazardly on the floor. The deeper he went, the farther his voice sounded, lost in layers and layers of clothes and metal. “If there's anything you need me do, come tell. My work might not be a fine dwarven crafts, but is sturdy enough to do the job.”

“I'll bear that in mind, Master,” Tairinn nodded absently, too busy watching the pile of yet unsharpened swords lying in the corner. They were good indeed, not ornately designed as some would prefer, but Tairinn wasn't the one for flashy. The weapon had a purpose that it must serve and flowers and all kinds of jewel infused pommels only looked impressive out of the battlefield.

The weapons here, however, were just what she needed - practical and simple - which meant Mira had been right, Harritt was a man she could trust with her trouble. Then blacksmith's words registered in her mind and she turned abruptly just as the man emerged from the crate with his hands full.

“What do you mean by ruined?” she asked helplessly. The armor she arrived in was the only thing that she'd got left after explosion. All her spare clothes, medicine and other personal belongings had either burned down with the camp or disappeared with her horse.

The man hummed and shook his burden in the direction of a desk. “Come see for yourself.”

He barked an order for his apprentice to clear the surface and dropped the pile on it as soon as all design blueprints were safely tucked away by… Tairinn blinked in surprise. Familiar violet eyes surrounded by a fluffy crown of red hair peeked at her from under Harritt’s elbow. Mira threw a wide toothy smile at her and sprinted towards another, much younger smith, looking completely at ease in the workshop.

“And I was wondering how come the girl is so excited about your work, Master.” Tairinn snorted, watching her start sorting through the papers, and asked nonchalantly, “your daughter?”

Harritt nearly dropped the faulds he was adjusting onto the floor and began laughing heartily. Tairinn raised a brow at him, not really sure what he had found so funny in her guess.

“She's an elf, Lieutenant, and I'm a human. Don't you know halflings look like us?” he squeezed in between the fits of laughter, though the gaze he threw at the girl was nothing but loving.

“I've seen stranger things than half-blooded elfs,” Tairinn replied. “The more you travel, the less you believe in constants.”

“Might be true,” the man conceded, setting the faulds aside and pulling a pair of tassets for inspection instead. “These might do,” he hummed and measured Tairinn with a squint. “The girl has an elven mother, both from Denerim alienage I've heard. The mother works at the tavern and we always need quick legs here, so I took her in, she's running errands. Though, maybe one day…” He once again lost his train of thought, too immersed in whatever calculation he was doing to keep the conversation going and Tairinn decided not to interrupt him. Her future safety was in his hands now and she wasn't a gambler. Not like that, anyway.

 

The blacksmith put away a set of gauntlets in favor of a single right vambrace, still deep in thought, nodded to himself and said, “Let's try it out.” Finally, after what Tairinn felt was not less than twenty minutes of cloud watching on her part, she stretched and joined the man to inspect the set he laid out for her.

“The breastplate was ripped open when you fell, Seeker said, so I got you a new one, Lieut. No sigil, but I don't think it would be wise to have one now with the war and all, if you want my opinion. The design is the same though.” Harritt continued the impromptu excursion, showing what parts were replaced and which ones had survived Fade traipsing and two not so graceful falls. The second group was unfortunately not the biggest.

It was strange to see the breastplate without the sword in flames, but the Master was right, that change was for the best. Tairinn could appreciate the way it lessened the possibility of any stray apostate going straight for her with an ice blast just because of some lines of red on her chest.

While she was doing inventory, Harritt disappeared in between the stacks again and quickly returned with Tairinn's dark ash-grey gambeson. She knew it was hers because of the Chantry symbols still etched into its edges with a gold thread, she also knew it fit her like a second skin. Unable to stop from an irrational feelings that welled up in her chest, she accepted the coat and put it on despite the heat from the forge, tracing some new sewing here and there. She smiled wistfully then. Blissful routine.

“Good masters you Order brats have,” Harritt clicked his tongue approvingly and gave her left greave, polished and straightened where there had been a dent.

“This one is elven made,” Tairinn explained as she tightened the straps, “met the wandering clan near Antiva border back in 9:36, got a nice deal.”

“Elfs and metalwork? Aren't you telling?” The man watched the second one skeptically and shook his head in disbelief, but Tairinn only shrugged.

“They had a master who worked with humans sometimes. Got killed long ago or something like that, but some of his stuff was kept unsold. They were in a hurry though and in need of assistance, so we got a deal: we helped the Clan to Vimmarks, I got this leg armor, Ianthe - her bow, Lita…” She kept her breathing slow and steady to calm her racing heart and the blacksmith seemed to know best that to interrupt her silent mourning.

When she felt her voice would be steady enough to continue, Tairinn was already finishing with the belt over her new cuirass. “Master… Don't you by chance have a sword and shield for me to use?” she spoke again, changing the subject, “Mine, you know…”

“Got nicked?” the man nodded knowingly. “I guess a good Templar shield would be worth it.”

“No, I… explosion happened,” she frowned, jogging in place to taste the armor. It fit perfectly.

“Ah, a shame. Let me see…” Harritt went for a rack that held swords, the same design Tairinn had seen in the armory, only sharpened nicely. He took one from its hanger, checked the hilt and nodded with satisfaction. The shield took a bit longer, but in the end Tairinn became the owner of a nice bastard sword with a matching scabbard and a shield closely resembling a Templar one but again without a sigil.

“Thank you, Master,” Tairinn said sincerely, feeling familiar weight settle on her body again. She didn't feel naked and so vulnerable anymore and even the headache seemed to back off a little. “My horse be here, I could easily take off on a mission again. She was my first you know, we got through a lot together. Pity she's dead.”

Harritt measured her with a speculative glance and grinned a little. “You know, Herald,” he said officially, “you got out from where no one could survive, might be your horse befitting of her owner?”

“What do you mean?” Tairinn stared back at him hesitantly, trying desperately not to hope and failing.

“Black like coal, saddlebags of drake leather, and with a temper of a fury?” the man asked, turning to the mountains over the lake.

“You saw her? Where?” Tairinn exclaimed, clasping Harritt’s shoulders and shaking him a bit.

“Lookouts got trapped on the western path two days ago, the snowfall was nasty. They'd freeze to death just a mile from home if your mare didn't come to them.” Harritt took Tairinn's hands from his shoulders gingerly, trying to avoid touching the mark that went volatile and was spitting green sparks. He looked in her wide eyes and went on. “She stayed with them till the blizzard ended, warming them up and then left as soon as they got back on the road. Boys say they tried to see what's in the saddlebags, but your girl snapped at them, even bit Jareth when he tried to mount her.”

That made Tairinn snicker. It totally was something her horse would do. She was shaky with relief and her eyes must be betraying her panic that began to be slowly ebbed away by understanding, Hoka was alive.  “You think she's still up there in the mountains?”

“Where else? Lookouts see her from time to time, but never close enough to catch.” The blacksmith nodded at the camp where soldiers finished their training routine and were chatting with each other over lunch. Sun was crawling slowly down from its zenith, but daylight was to last for at least four hours. “You plan to go look for her?”

“If Cass is okay with me going, maybe I'll gather some elfroot on the way there, heard this weed grows even up here. I hate being useless,” she confessed, watching Mira bounce around the forge with her arms full of leather straps and cloth scraps. The girl dropped her cargo onto the deck and ran back to the young smith, clearly happy to be here and do something for the village. Tairinn knew the feeling.

“Everyone here does, Lieutenant,” Harritt patted her elbow and pushed her to the exit. “Go, do your thing, mark ore deposits if you find some. We would need it.” They both shared a look and Tairinn left the shop with a thanks for her new armor and a smile from Mira.

Back at the upper tier of Haven, she quickly found alchemist's hut by the smell of elfroot and blood lotus, then dropped by the quartermaster's tent before seeking out Cassandra in a secluded corner of the Chantry building. The woman got pretty skeptical about Tairinn's plan, but gave up soon enough for both of them to know she was just being cautious rather than really afraid of Tairinn running away.

 

So, half an hour later two Templars were marching uphill towards the western path, loaded with Inquisition’s needs. Adan, a man as out of this world as Darius, requested the notes of Haven's late healer who had been living in a house in the hills and died there on the brink on the war. Threnn, a sullen woman with too much respect for some Loghain, a name Tairinn had absolutely heard but couldn't place, immediately jumped on the offer of help and gave her a foot long list of things she needed starting with a logging stand no less. One of the Chantry sisters that had heard them talking about requisitions approached Tairinn cautiously at the gates, whispering about food shortage and anticipated refugees from Crossroads. A search for Hoka quickly escalated into a full blown mission, so Tairinn fetched Ianthe from her vantage point on a half-assembled trebuchet and they left together.

Cold wind was biting mercilessly and in a matter of minutes Tairinn, unused to Ferelden climate, felt her ears go numb. She reached to push her hair down to have at least some cover from premature freezing, but stopped in her tracks when her fingers found only clean shaven skin of her temples. _Some pure soul clearly decided to make my life a lot easier_ , she thought, brushing the rest of her messy hair, bound in a small bun with a leather cord, with the tips of her fingers. On the one hand, it made her worry a little bit less about her grey hair, on the other though… her ears could fall off any minute.

The woman patted her belt, but there were no usual vials and spare cloth to use as a hood. Quick inventory check done, Tairinn considered the chances her cloak and spare pair of gloves were still in Hoka’s saddlebags and sighed. Her horse had a temper for sure and wouldn’t let just anyone rummage in her carry, but there was no guarantee they will be able to find her today.

Just as Tairinn came to a decision to use her belt as a cover for now and reached down to the clasps that were holding dark crimson samite in place, Ianthe suddenly dropped on one knee, already aiming at the thick evergreen bushes. Reflexes took both Templars over immediately, pushing them into defensive stances when another rustle came from the growth. “Cover me,” Tairinn signed silently to Ianthe, shield already set securely in the crook of her marked hand, and pulled her sword out of the scabbard slowly, without a sound.

Twigs crunched loudly, echoing through thin mountain air. Postal crow cawed hoarsely in the distance. Ianthe pulled the string of her bow. Jet black horse pushed through the branches, fixed tense women with a disinterested look and snorted mockingly.

“Are you kidding me,” Tairinn said flatly, staring at Hoka, and sheathed her sword. The horse snorted again, questioningly this time and got out of the bushes completely. She was watching Tairinn’s left arm warily, most possibly feeling the connection to the Fade even through the Sphere of Annulment. Or maybe she simply didn’t like the new addition to her rider’s body.

Ianthe, calm as always, dropped the arrow back in the quiver and strolled through the growth leisurely, picking elfroot leaves on her way. Tairinn sighed. She was left alone to explain to her horse why she had abandoned her and all hell broke loose.

“You plan to feign offence now?” she asked tiredly, knowing all too well what was to follow. Hoka stared back at her indignantly.

“Okay, I fucked up,” the woman raised her empty hands in surrender, “Let’s leave the ‘you had to take me with you’ and ‘I told you so’ for another day, huh?” The only answer she got was a huff, accompanied by unhappy whipping of the tail on Hoka’s sides. She would have to explain if she wanted them get back to Haven before the nightfall. All three of them.

“Listen,” Tairinn held her breath, unable to push the words out of her throat. It would never become easy. It didn’t with Dan. “Listen, I’d take you with me in a heartbeat, but they wouldn’t let me. And there,” she pointed up to the vortex frozen in the sky, “nothing lives there. Evelyn’s dead. Lita too. Sylas won’t be taking care of you anymore. No more bribes from Aidan. Ianthe saved Darius, but that was all she could do. Am I that bad that I only feel relieved now knowing that you’re alive when they’re dead?”

Tears were threatening to spill from her softly glowing eyes and her voice was rough with emotions, betraying the hurt she felt. The Voice became a constant whisper in her head, trying to break her, leave it all and go find that man, that murderer, kill him before he does it again… Warm muzzle bumped Tairinn’s forehead gently, pulling her out from dark thoughts, and she embraced Hoka’s bent neck, holding onto it for dear life while her shoulders shuddered with silent sobs.

I’m sorry, she wanted to say, but what did it matter? Dead won’t hear her anymore, nor would they forgive. It was time to fight for the living.

 

Hoka had always been a very special horse, Tairinn knows it since the moment they first meet.

Years ago, in the middle of unusually cold Guardian of 9:34 Knight-Commander Margaret takes an eighteen-year-old Tairinn Trevelyan along with five more Templars to the outskirts of Wycome. There seven Free Marches Ranger colts are running free in a field of last year grass. The Templars come here to choose not just a horse, but a partner in war and peace, because all six will join a mobile squad that would roam the whole country on Revered Nita’s command in five months.

Tairinn fears what is to come. Twelve years since the Voice awoken in her head passed in constant attempts to control it, make it weaker, but she knows she had failed. Four steeds and three mares, all white as snow, panic at the sight of her and horsemaster is shocked by their stubborn refusal to come closer to a young Trevelyan woman. He sputters his apologies, but Tairinn waves him off and leaves the group, sure by now that the horses will calm down only when she’s out of sight.

She watches her brothers in arms wistfully from the shadow of an old oak tree, revels in their joy when treats disappear from their hands and colts nudge them for more apples and sugar. She wishes she could have it too, but the Voice never leaves, scaring away any animal she tries to get close to. Then something shoves her shoulder with enough force to send the woman rolling.

As Tairinn springs into a fighting stance, her eyes meet a pair of curious pitch black ones, surrounded by the longest lashes she had ever seen. A mare the color of the darkest night huffs as if laughing and comes closer only to bump her shoulder again with her muzzle. When Tairinn, gaping in disbelief, does nothing, the horse neighs disapprovingly and starts chewing on her sleeve. That’s how she meets Hoka.

Horsemaster is as surprised by the turn of events as Tairinn herself when she returns to the group with a happily munching on an apple mare in tow. The horse, he tells, is a year and a half old and was meant for a Templar training, but has a temper so disastrous, the only man who had chose her, returned her three weeks from getting. Tairinn doesn’t even hesitate, when she says, “Come with me? I’ll have my assignment soon and I need someone who won’t run away from me.” The words hang heavy in between them, betraying her insecurity and loneliness as she combs a messy mane gently and whispers, “And I won’t leave you, I promise.” Dark eyes watch her intently and she feels being measured and hopes. No one believes their eyes when the mare nods and goes for Tairinn’s sleeve again.

Five recruits get bitten and one ends up with a broken leg after unsuccessful attempts to ride Hoka by three weeks end. Tairinn just laughs it off and tells them to stop trying already and they whine when she offers the horse treats, one for every recruit. Hoka stays in the Monastery with Tairinn.

They have their first row just two days after Tairinn is assigned to the squad. Darius claims it’s stupid to take silent treatment from a horse and Ruth jokes about Hoka being a spoiled enchanted prince, but… Tairinn ignores their jabs and stays up late talking, trying to explain that horses don’t go into Circles and maybe Monastery isn’t so strict, but the world outside won’t let them be together in buildings and “that means Chantry too, you absolute buffoon!”

It seems she spent hours in vain, but next morning Sylas pats her elbow and nods approvingly and then teaches her how to braid the mane so it doesn’t turn into intangible mess.

“It won’t be easy, mind me,” Captain says with a smile on her thin lips, “because peaceful possession is rare and Valor is temperamental, but I think you both will manage. Just hold on to each other.”

Hoka had always been a special horse, because she wants to never leave her partner and fight side by side with Tairinn.

 

She must have sensed the pain Tairinn was feeling and leaned in, offering the comfort readily. This, however, didn’t mean she wouldn’t make leaving the bushes she’d been camping at a spectacle worthy of best Orlesian theatres. Tairinn pulled, prodded and pushed, but the mare decided to be stubborn and simply refused to move.

“Okay, you pain in my ass, what do you want?” the woman groaned, letting her head fall onto the saddle. “I said it, I’m sorry I left you! But the Temple is just a big Chantry and we spoke about it, it’s a no-go for you!” They both sighed, Tairinn - wearily, Hoka - exasperated. “You’d be dead if you came with me, you know. Aidan did and there’s even no body left. And if you wouldn't have wandered away as always...”

“ _I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed..._  Ianthe chanted absently from where she was stacking the pile of elfroot, timely with her comment as always.

Tairinn clicked her tongue. “That. I haven’t forgotten about you, moron. I could only hope you made it.” She stepped away and put her hands on her hips. “Listen, the shit blew up big and we have more problems than ever. I got into something dangerous again and I need your help.” That seemed to finally get through to Hoka’s conscience and she nodded slightly, turning to give Tairinn space to get into the saddle.

“Not right now,” the woman smiled and patted horse’s neck before beckoning her to follow to where Ianthe finished the second stack and tied it for transportation. “We have some errands to finish first. Wanna go meet Commander Cullen when we get to the village? The one from Kirkwall I told you about.” The skeptical look it earned her was one of the best Hoka ever managed to pull off, but Tairinn, too happy to be on friendly side of her partner again, just laughed.

Together with Ianthe they won the struggle and attached the stacks to the saddle and, while the archer sprinted forward to make sure the path is clear, Tairinn finally checked the saddlebags. To her relief Hoka kept everything safe, even the vials with ‘silent step’ were intact. She pulled her cloak out of the bag and put it on immediately, marveling at the warmth it brought. More rummaging and she murmured a quiet thank you when her hands felt tightly bound in protective layer of leather letters from Ethan.

The moment Ianthe got back with two nugs and a knowing grin on her pale lips, Tairinn was adjusting a thin silver band on the ring finger of her gloved right hand, trying to get used to an unfamiliar feeling. It was her grandmother’s and till now she had thought it was safer hidden, but after everything that had transpired in the last four days, it was good to have a reminder of home with her. Grandma was a fighter till her last breath, now it was Tairinn's turn to be strong.

Breathing in deep, she nodded to her comrades. They were ready to go back.

 

Hours later, when sun had already touched the peaks of the Frostbacks, coloring the sky around the Breach in murky brown, the trio rounded the last corner of the path leading them back to Haven. There, at the weathered wooden gates a crowd of agitated people was already waiting for them, gaping at the numerous loot they were carrying.

“And you have told me you were off to find _papers?_ ” Cassandra groaned in disbelief, taking a big bundle of crumpled scrolls from Ianthe with a frown.

Cullen immediately ordered his men to unload a very unhappy from being used as a plow horse Hoka. They began unstrapping two ram carcasses and three stacks of elfroot cautiously, but she graciously let them take the weight off her, glaring holes in her rider. Tairinn ignored that, dropped more letters and elfroot in silently watching the dawn Ianthe's hands and sent her off to the alchemist. Then, when she stretched, feeling for any looseness in her armor belts, and found none, the woman turned to the crowd, shaking her head with a smile.

“Got these along the way, Cass!” she said joyfully and winked at the Seeker, giving her the nugs the archer shot on their way back as a peace offering. “Sisters said there'll be more people coming so we thought more food wouldn't hurt, would it?”

“Your effort is quite commendable, Herald,” Leliana's voice, calm and official, came from the gate. She approached, snaking her way through the crowd, and nodded approvingly. Her eyes, however, were dark with heavy thoughts. Something was wrong.

Tairinn straightened immediately, her fingers reaching out to comb through Hoka's mane on their own accord, the only thing betraying her nervousness through otherwise calm facade. The horse snorted, but leaned into the touch anyway, throwing side glances at the hooded figure of the spymaster. She might be still frustrated with her rider disappearing for four days, but it didn't mean she would happily let any stranger upset her human.

Leliana noticed the wave of animosity that came from the horse and stopped at a polite distance from the two, subtly showing her empty open hands. “I mean no harm to your partner,” she said honestly.

 _How does she know_ , Tairinn thought, surprised at the level of understanding the Left Hand had. _Had she ever met someone like Hoka or Anders?_

“How do you know?” she asked silently, letting dark messy mane go and stepping towards the redhead.

“I have met my fair share of unique beings,” Leliana answered and then added louder for others to hear, “We must hurry, Herald. News came from Redcliffe and we shall convene to discuss it immediately.”

“That bad, huh,” the Templar muttered and stared pleadingly at Hoka whom Cullen's soldiers tried to take away to the small stable near the smith shop. “They'll unsaddle and feed you and I'll come to talk as soon as possible,” she promised. “Go with them, please.”

The villagers, oblivious to their exchange, were busy whispering. Some stared at annoyed-looking black horse, some at the food two women brought. No one paid attention to the man clad in Chantry robes who scoffed at the people around him and disappeared in the crowd, muttering something.

The horse sighed and turned to the young boy that was practically hanging on the rein by that point, trying to move her. They watched each other for a moment and then the mare rolled her eyes and went down the road regally, ignoring the recruit. He sputtered and took after her completely flabbergasted. Tairinn only shook her head in exasperation, motioning for Inquisition's heads to lead.

 

They got to the Chantry and into the room they'd been camping in that morning in strained silence. Cassandra and Cullen stomped purposefully through the doorway and split up, the Seeker staying by Tairinn's side near the exit, while Commander, a lousy gentleman he was, squeezed around the huge table, letting Leliana and Josephine follow his example. Both women kept throwing looks of dissatisfaction at the small figurine in the western part of masterfully drawn Ferelden. Cullen was oozing smugness.

“So,” Tairinn broke the oppressive silence, seeing that nobody wanted to be the breaker of bad news, “mages showed us a middle finger?”

“No wonder they did,” the only man in the company muttered. Tairinn knew she hardly could blame him for his upbringing, but the pigheadedness with which he continued to put the blame on things magi was getting to her. The headache, nearly splitting her skull in million small sharp pieces by now, did little to help her stay calm and collected.

“Do we have anything beyond gloating?” she snapped, gripping the table with both hands to prevent lashing out physically. Josephine jerked at the sharp sound and looked up at Tairinn with unhidden surprise. The Templar closed her eyes to hide the darkness invading them and exhaled slowly. “The letter,” she said in a low, rough voice, “what else we can learn from it _besides_ the refusal?”

“They did not spend time to discuss the possibilities,” Josephine offered with a frown, looking through the notes on her tablet. “The crow was sent back almost immediately.”

“The bird got back half an hour before you. They refused right away. We have yet another problem,” Leliana added inspecting her nails. “One more raven disappeared from the rookery in the morning.”

“Roderick.” Cassandra flexed her fingers in a motion that suggested some neck being snapped.

“The most possible candidate,” spymaster confirmed, finally looking up from her manicure. “And it means Val Royeaux would be informed of the Inquisition by next midnight. We must plan our actions and do it fast to soften the blow.”

“Fucking pain in the ass…” Tairinn hissed, feeling the Voice well up inside her, threatening to take over. “Maker take him twice and from behind!” Everyone cringed from her choice of words, but deep inside they all agreed with the sentiment. The Chancellor seemed to have an uncanny ability to infuriate people even when he wasn't in the room.

Cullen loomed over the map and bumped his knuckles into a small spot marking the capital of Orlais. “We're still waiting any reply from the Order. It wouldn't come for days, but we could use Monastery's help. Maybe we should send a follow-up…”

“We'll be waiting for nothing, Commander, mark my words.” Tairinn interrupted him, exhausted of the same old song. “I'll be frank. These past years the Order has been neck deep in lies and infighting, they care less about reality than about their greed now. Most of us at Monasteries were left to fend for ourselves and hope for the sanity of our revered mothers and commanders. Everything is permitted as long as we’re off chasing mages like crazy and brand them just because we can!”

“Lies!” Warrior's fist struck the table as he growled dangerously, “Magic cannot be without control!”

Both Cassandra and Leliana frowned at he vehemence in his voice, Josephine stepped away with caution, but Tairinn just laughed darkly, finally opening her hollow gold-rimmed eyes to stare at him.

“Whose control, Commander? The ones who set the bar as low as breathing being enough to deserve punishment? Tell me, how well that control worked in Kirkwall?”

Words were falling from her lips like poison as she stared at him unblinking, hypnotizing. Familiar rage was rising in her chest reminding of Alessa's blood on Darius hands, emptiness and constant nightmares he tried to drown in a bottle and drugs, happy smile he had buried forever in Kirkwall's sewers with his sister's body.

The man standing in front of Tairinn was the one that had been looking away when the bitch was slaughtering people. No, he was the one who kept the executions going! Because of him Sylas had to hide the limp until his death. Because of him Anders did what he did. Because of him Tairinn had almost bled out on the cold stones of the Gallows were it not for Keren and his 'healing’. Worthless, pathetic, too sorry for himself to see the real horror…

She froze abruptly when a heavy hand fell on her shoulder, grounding Tairinn in present. Cassandra's voice ordering her to stop was distant, but worked as a bucket of cold water, breaking the spell. The Templar knew what had just happened and it scared her shitless. The withdrawal reached a final phase.

“I… My apologies…” she whispered hoarsely, stumbling back to lean on the wall for support.

Pain, constant but bearable before, was pulsing through Tairinn's body in shockwaves, twisting her insides and leaving no room for breath in her lungs. _Ten weeks from the first miss attacks would lessen in number but keep growing in strength,_ Ethan had written in one of his last letters. And it seemed the time had come for his theories to become reality.

Cullen's face was a lifeless mask when she looked up, heaving, clutching her left hand pulsing with emerald light closer to her chest. Unmoving he stared at the map in front of him, his eyes unfocused and dark. Just how much had she said out loud? Judging by Josephine's horrified expression, enough to scare the Antivan for a long time.

“Now is not the time for this,” Leliana said slowly, her words a monotone cadence. “What’s done is done. The only thing that matters now is our cause.” She was still, hidden behind her hood, but Tairinn felt her calculating gaze even through the haze of pain and need. She was being carefully evaluated, her every word was being cataloged for later analysis, every gesture could give her away.

“What can we do?” she asked, resting the back of her head on the cool stone of the Chantry wall. “What do you need me to do?”

“Help us to gain public support,” Josephine offered carefully in barely a whisper. She was watching Tairinn as one would watch a wounded bird of prey - always ready to back off at the slightest sign of aggression.

 _Way to go, girl_ , Trevelyan berated herself, _so much for keeping a low profile. No doubt this beau is thinking me bipolar by now with all these mood swings._ While she gave in to unhappy thoughts, the Ambassador kept talking, her voice gaining strength as she went on.

“The Chantry would be distrustful, we can be sure of it thanks to Chancellor actions, but we must not forget common people. The country is once again drowning in the war. Skirmishes are reported from every main road, every part of Imperial Highway.”

“People lose their homes, are left with no food or means to live on, abandoned to survive on their own.” Tairinn nodded grimly, pushing away from the wall and returning to the map with a slight limp in her step. Another side effect of the attack was all her old wounds aching, including deep and wide strip of burnt by lyrium brand skin on her left thigh. That particular Kirkwall memorabilia was always the first to remind her of the fragility of life, even if it had never been life threatening, not for her. But for mages Tairinn had tried to cover it was and now when the Mage-Templar war was marching through yet another country… She knew both sides would fight with all they have and no remorse for ordinary people caught in between the spell and sword.

“I can try to reason with some of Templars. Or mages, if we spin this right,” she offered in the end, not believing her words herself. Hatred and rage never listen.

“While tempting, it is quite unreasonable,” Josephine interrupted her, waving her clipboard in agitation. “The rumors of you being the Herald of Andraste spread fast.”

“Like a wildfire,” Cassandra muttered behind Tairinn’s back, making the woman cringe.

“So I’m a good big target, glowing in the night, all that,” she chuckled humorlessly. “What then?”

“There is a woman in the Hinterlands helping the refugees, Revered Mother Giselle,” Leliana spoke up from her place and placed a figurine of a pyramid of some kind over the tiny spot on the map. It read Crossroads. “Orlesian, she was quite popular among the clergy, but not enough to be invited to the Conclave. She is one of the loudest voices of reason at the moment. She asks for a meeting with the Herald.”

Tairinn blinked in surprise at that last bit. That was stinking of heresy so much. “Okay,” she agreed without argument, “then I go talk to her. What do I expect? And when I leave?”

Cassandra appeared in her peripheral vision as a storm of fury, which was, if Tairinn understood Seeker’s character right, her usual state. “You’re not going there alone! Crossroads is a warzone, they will kill you without even noticing, be you Knight-Lieutenant, Commander or Lord-Seeker himself!”

“Only if they can catch me first,” Templar grumbled sullenly, just out of spite. She was no idiot and knew her limitations perfectly. She was a wreck.

“Those men would catch you, have their way with you and catch you some more if you give them as much as a chance,” Cullen spoke up for a first time since her outburst. He was still standing too straight and the frown on his face deepened since their meeting at the gates, but there was real worry in his eyes, not hatred. And understanding. “Cassandra will join you. The dwarf and the apostate will too should you desire so. You seemed to find some common ground with the elf earlier,” his lips curled as if he took a bite of something sour. “The smaller the team is, the smaller is the chance of being noticed right now. And there is only one horse fitting for going into the combat anyway. Yours.”

Tairinn only nodded tiredly. Her eyelids seemed to weigh a ton each and there were new tremors threatening to shake her very core. She simply hoped for some sleep, sweet dreamless sleep.

“It would take you a week to reach Crossroads by foot,” Leliana informed them, tapping the figurine on the map. “Mountain paths will take you to the Imperial Highway, but it would be a long walk so you better have some sleep and be ready to leave at dawn. I will make sure your supplies are ready by that time.”

 

After that the conversation died down slowly as Josephine and Leliana once again buried themselves in papers, three warriors took their cue to leave the meeting room. Cassandra threw disapprovingly suspicious glare at stalling Tairinn, but decided not to wait for her and disappeared in a badly-lit hallway of the Chantry. The Templar waited for Cullen to pass her by and joined him, limping at his right.

“I am sorry, Commander…” she began, swallowing her pride, but the man just shook his head, looking as exhausted as she felt.

“There isn’t a day I don’t regret letting it happen, Lieutenant.” His words sounded shallow, but ringed true. “I keep seeing their faces at nights, those mages, corrupted comrades… I’m not the one to tell you about it, you must have the same nightmares. And you’re not the one to apologize for the truth. That is why I left the Order, there was no truth for me in its tenets after that.”

The two left the dark mass of the Chantry towering above the pine trees behind their backs and began walking through the tiers of Haven. They passed by the quartermaster’s tent, a carving of mabari and Varric’s bonfire, each deep in their own thoughts. _How does he get lyrium?_ Tairinn wondered, glancing at the man, _smugglers? He doesn’t look like a quitter, no withdrawal signs._

“I can share the sentiment,” she sighed in the end. Her voice was shaky as she confessed, “two left the squad after Kirkwall. Darius returned, he had nowhere else to go, but Jessamine… Now I can’t help thinking it’s for the best she didn’t live to see this,” she said, pointing at the Breach, shimmering outworldly storm spinning slowly in the dark skies. “Jessy was a believer. It would have killed her to see the world crumble like this if the bottle didn’t.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” They passed the gate and came to the campsite on the lake shore.

“There’s no bringing back the dead. At least if you’re not Nevarran,” Tairinn tried to lighten the mood a bit. “Uh, Commander…” She rubbed the back of her neck self-consciously. “I have a request to make.” The man hummed questioningly, his eyes still fixed on the magical vortex up above, and she asked hopefully, “Could you quarter me in the camp? The house is great and all, but I’m long unused to sleeping under a real roof. The place is better to be converted into infirmary or whatnot, don’t you think?”

Cullen grumbled about getting a beating from Josephine, but agreed with her reasoning and sent her off to bother Varric, who had too many space in his tent for one dwarf. Tairinn tried to thank him, but ex-Templar was already busy giving out orders to his soldiers, so she left him to do what he knew best - command his people - and crawled her way to the bathhouse in hopes of warming her aching bones just a little.

 

The heat that small bathhouse was getting from the forge helped her muscles to relax somewhat, but didn't stop a subtle tremors coursing through her fingers. Tairinn spent quite some time there, watching soldiers come and go from the darkest corner, her glowing hand hidden behind the washcloth. The couple of Templars from earlier joined her at some point, quiet and wary.

“How're you holding up, Lieutenant?” a pale black haired man asked after introducing himself and his comrade as Kay and Lisette. Tairinn jerked at the familiar name and threw an inconspicuous glance at the young woman. Thankfully, she was way too young and far away from Hercinia to be Tairinn's estranged second cousin Lisette Lannon.

The man was in his forties, had a wicked sense of humor and his speech mostly consisted of puns and dad jokes to the embarrassment of his barely seventeen-year-old colleague. Both from a secluded Monastery in Nevarra, they decided to join the Inquisition to aid in closing the Breach rather than fight their way to Jader through western Ferelden and Tairinn found herself agreeing with their reasoning. She spoke with Kay for some time, polite but distant, until a group of loudmouthed soldiers barged in, singing some local song. Templars felt their suspicious gazes and left together after using a bucket of ice-cold lake water to rinse the sweat off their bodies.

They parted at the temporary stables, where Tairinn stayed to speak to Hoka, and warriors went on their merry ways to a singled out tent at the edge of the camp. Maybe she could offer Cullen including them into some of the exercises, but Tairinn had no strength left for any more wandering around and just hoped the man would not let the situation escalate. The horse listened to her partner’s incoherent muttering for a couple of minutes and then headbutted her in the direction of the gates, though not unkindly. Tairinn groaned as a wave of nausea hit her and simply followed the momentum until her body hit the sleeping bag in Varric’s tent.

 

“Does our dear Ambassador know you’re camping here instead of that little hut?” the dwarf asked as his hands reached to pull another cover over her trembling body. She looked bad, ashen grey skin the color of qunari rather than human she was, pupils dilated and breath ragged no matter how hard she tried to hide it. “Not that I mind your company, Lady,” he added when she pushed up weakly and began spewing apologies. “Just need to know how we’re going to explain this to Seeker.”

“I’m taking full responsibility,” Tairinn groaned into her cloak she had used as a pillow, and curled around her pulsing even through the Sphere of Annulment left hand.

“What I think you’re not taking properly is your drugs,” the man muttered, flopping onto his own sleeping bag, “but you humans are weird kind and I like you, Lady, so your secret is safe with me. Just don’t puke all over the tent.”

Tairinn tried to object and inform the cocky brat she could hold her own even on a deathbed, but no words came out of her throat and she gave up with a pained moan. In the end, Varric had been the one who saw her dying, so maybe they both could go without that reminder. He knew her secret, but she trusted him with her life.

Dreams crept upon her, full of burning bodies staring at her, their hollow mouths forever gaping in inaudible screams. For once she welcomed them to escape the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are unintended, but if you see something that is really out of place, please let me know in comments cause this story has no beta besides my except brain.  
> Thanks for reading and if you liked it please drop some feedback!


	13. Crossroads Untraveled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tairinn was happy to be alive. No matter how pathetic it sounded even in her head, she truly was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, two months! It took me two months to finally finish this chapter and honestly I don't know how most of the stuff that happens here, well, happened. It just kinda did.
> 
> What I'm absolutely sure of is my gratefulness to Mags, my friend in angst and dirty jokes and the very person who'd stopped me from some very, VERY bad decisions concerning Solas it this chapter. Fren, I owe you with this one!
> 
> Also, I want to thank everyone who left a comment on this story! I know I did a bad job keeping even a semblance of posting schedule and I probably will keep doing it in the future cause real life is kinda crazy now, but I just want to let you know that even when I'm neck deep in problems, your reviews push me to do better. 
> 
> And I want to assure anyone who decides to stick with this story, it won't be dropped. I may lay low with updates from time to time as I figure how some things work with the draft I have, but I have every intention to finish this monster. Even if it grows to ungodly 200k words, which it slowly does.  
> Enough of my ramblings, to the story!

Next morning Tairinn was woken up by a horrid stench. 

It was sipping into the tent from the outside where the sun hadn’t even started to rise yet. The smell enveloped groggily blinking woman, smothering her with aroma of rotten fish that was left for a month to lay in the sun near the cheese farm.  _ Is Varric cooking again? _

She wrestled her way out of the sleeping bag, crawled out of the tent, barely able to push the bile that started to rise down her throat and found herself staring at someone's backside.  _ A finely shaped backside _ , she thought fleetingly, her eyes apprehensively following the curve of woman's spine only to find an entirely familiar armor with Eye of the Seeker up there. It stared back at Tairinn, menacing and sarcastic, squashing any improper thoughts from her mind. 

“Oops…” The Templar cursed under her breath. 

Cassandra must have been on her way to wake her, unknowing that Tairinn had traded the house for something much more fitting a warrior, but absolutely unbefitting of a 'Herald’. Seeing the damage had already been done, the woman grimaced in pain and braced for a dressing down from a shocked Nevarran, who turned swiftly to the source of expletives.

“What… what have you been doing in Varric's tent?” she choked on her words, her cheeks and ears dark with blush.

“Sleeping, what else,” Tairinn mumbled laconically, trying to cover her sensitive nose from the smell streaming from the pot dangling over the fire. 

_ How the hell Varric stands it? And why no one has banned him from the village for the crimes against humanity yet _ , she wondered, finally standing upright. The earth rocked a bit under Tairinn's feet, but the nausea became bearable out in the open and she managed to think straight at last.

Cassandra, on the other hand, seemed to completely misunderstand the situation unfurling before her, but, truth be told, she had the right to. Tairinn was staring at her mulishly, making a resemblance to a fresh corpse just summoned back to life by a young and clearly inexperienced mortalitasi even more pronounced. 

Her brown skin, usually having a warm tawny tinge to it, turned greenish, contrasting badly with the crimson sash she had wrapped around her nose as a mask. Her unruly hair stood on ends as if someone had electrocuted the woman with a lightning spell and the bags under her eyes made her look nearly fifty instead of her twenty six years old. 

All in all, Tairinn looked like someone one step from the death bed, not just out of Varric's warm bedroll. The dwarf himself was just smirking smugly at Cassandra's appalled expression, clearly waiting for imminent explosion.

“You were… sleeping? Why here?” The Seeker asked in a surprisingly calm and neutral tone, but Tairinn knew it was calm before the storm. With mild trepidation she stared at the woman managing to loom over her even though the Marchan was two or three good inches taller.  _ A perfect interrogator indeed. _

“I'm used to sleeping out in the open,” she said nonchalantly and tried to back off in the direction of the bathhouse, silently mourning the illusion of freedom she used to have back in Free Marches. At least no hot, but too scary to be hit on ladies had shadowed her every single step back there. 

“I don't feel safe in these four walls. Any walls.” That was all Tairinn was ready to give up for now, maybe even too much, but Cassandra did not back down.

“This will turn into a political nightmare,” she groaned as her dark eyes darted back and forth between the Templar and stone building of the Chantry.” Josephine will be furious if this becomes known that the Herald… Oh my, why can't we have nice things?” She hid her face in her palms and sighed in resignation.

“Peace and quiet you mean?” came sarcastic rumble from the shadows, followed by soft clinking of shield on the metal of warrior's armor. “You of all people should know, there is no such things when politics are involved.” 

Cullen entered the ring of fire just as the sun peeked from its mountain getaway. First rays of sunlight spilled over the snowed peaks, sprinkled the lake down in the valley with bright sparks and encircled the man in an unearthly halo. Unknowing he had just become a live male version of 'the Burning of Andraste’ fresco, the Templar cleared his throat to catch wavering attention of trio before him.

“Josephine can rest assured the house has already been put to a good use,” he said and frowned at the way all three were staring at him with their eyes glazed over in wonder. “Is there something on my face?”

“What? No, of course no!” Cassandra sputtered as she came round, blushing again. “What were you saying, Commander?”

Cullen's brows rose even higher, threatening to merge with his hairline and doing nothing to hide his surprise. “The house is converted into an infirmary,” he repeated, shaking his head. “You sure you'll be safe on the road? Seems like there wasn't enough sleep between the three of you.”

He took a step into the shadow of an old fir tree to take a closer look at the dwarf staring up at him dreamily and the halo shimmered and died out shortly. Varric blinked a couple of times and darted towards his bags, muttering something incoherent. Just as he finally dug out the quill and a spare sheet of paper to scribble down his last fit of inspiration, Tairinn, the last to come back to her senses, snickered at Commander's choice of words and winked at Cassandra. 

Cullen could clearly see there was some kind of inside joke of sorts running here as the Seeker turned completely red and sprinted towards the Chantry without any acknowledgement or reply to his question. Tairinn, ash grey, but not looking like an undertaker's client anymore, just wiggled her brows suggestively, chuckled and sauntered towards the bathhouse with a limp in her step. That left Cullen alone with thoughtfully humming Varric, already smeared with ink and grinning like a madman. Seeing that the dwarf was lost to the world for immediate future, the man schooled his features back into the neutral mask and went on his merry way to the tavern.

 

Tairinn slipped into the old wooden hut of the bathhouse and flopped onto the nearest bench with a satisfied groan. She sat there till the life started returning to her drained body as the heat reached her bones and the smell of pine wood finally drove out the stench of Varric's cooking. 

Had it anything to do with the look of furious embarrassment on Cass’ face, the way Varric dove for his writing tools or Cullen's saint-like appearance? She wasn't sure, but it reminded her of those earliest days at the Monastery and her first childhood friends besides her brothers.

Good old shy recruit Mark and bratty Chantry sister Eloise! Both of them were sharp, quick witted and never gave a damn about Tairinn’s noble blood. None of the two had ever shown fear when shadows lurked in the depths of her eyes. 

Mark left eventually for Starkhaven’s Circle and Eloise chose to embrace religious teachings in the dimness of Monastery. But that friendship Tairinn cherished till this day, even if it was dulled by duty, distance and time. No matter how far from each other they were taken by the circumstances, there still was warmth in every letter and joy in every meeting fates allowed them to have.

Now, more than a decade later, Tairinn smiled again at the memory of them chasing each other through the overgrown backyard. Brought back by these unmistakably different but so real, so alive people around her, who joked, cursed, shook their heads at her playfully , it warmed her too, but not in physical way. 

Peace and quiet. People of the Inquisition wanted this just like she did. And just like her they were preparing to go to war to fight for those who couldn’t. 

Lounging on the low bench for some time, she enjoyed the last moments of comfort before the long trek down the mountains and into the wilderness of the Hinterlands to its fullest. The thoughts of impending battles and no doubt more difficult talks flooded her mind, pushing the question of why no one else had noticed the horrid smell from dwarf's pot to the back of her consciousness.

 

The morning went on quite eventfully, starting with a hasty packing, quick breakfast and another confrontation between Varric and Cassandra. Tairinn, a sole observer to their heated bickering, couldn't miss that there was something on with these two. She was sure, if they were mages, the air between them would already be sparking with tension. 

She was, however, in no mood for listening to the Seeker's snappy remarks about everything the dwarf did, including the way he walked and breathed. So _ ,  _ instead of picking sides and playing a peacekeeper, the Templar grabbed her gear and dropped on the nearby empty crate loudly. _ Why Cass doesn't drag him for his disastrous cooking skills _ , she wondered, smirking at them, fuming at each other even as Varric continued packing.

“Sun's up, ladies and gentlemen,” she sighed ten minutes later, fully equipped and ready for the road. “You may go on as long as you wish, but I'm setting out.” 

Running down the snow covered road she nodded her welcome to the silent elf, still half sleeping judging by the way he stumbled mindlessly towards the gates. Solas waved back wearily, his heavy lidded eyes looking through Tairinn, and would have walked directly into the mabari statue had she not grabbed him by the elbow.

“Bad night?” she asked without hiding her concern when the man blinked himself into consciousness. 

She knew what awaited mages in their dreams: fear-inducing closeness of the Fade and a much higher chance of getting possessed by some especially bold demon. She was well aware of the risks of someone of Solas’ caliber turning into an abomination because she had seen what possession did to Yenne and the elf was much more stronger, experienced and she dared say appetizing for any demon than a twenty-four-year-old apprentice to the First Enchanter. Tairinn wouldn’t ever be able to forget the slow trickle of warm blood from a gaping wound in her lover’s chest and the red staining her fingers still felt too real sometimes. She didn’t want to take any chances.

Her inquisitive stare must have startled the mage because he flinched, breaking away from her hold and hissed something in Elvhen, but before she could say anything to calm him down, Cassandra and Varric finally caught up with them. 

“You look like hell, Chuckles,” the dwarf noted unapologetically as he took in mage's appearance. “Take the first watch today, you need some sleep.”

With a grunt the man nodded and took Tairinn's left under Cassandra's suspicious gaze. Huffing in irritation at his manners, the Seeker stood at Tairinn’s right, leaving smirking Varric and his ever present crossbow to watch their backs. 

The dwarf just opened his mouth to say something, but Tairinn cut him off sternly. 

“We have five days to cover by foot to reach the Crossroads, don't push it, Varric,” she said with an eyeroll and took Hoka’s reins, beckoning her to follow the downhill path. The horse exhaled soundly and followed her rider, carrying two bundled up tents and bags filled with healing supplies and provisions on her back. “If Cass snaps, I'm not stepping in,” the woman added, knowing Varric all to well to believe he will behave. 

“And don’t forget, you need to get to the Redcliffe farms!” Cullen shouted at their backs, panting from exertion as he met recruit’s sword with his own. “Find Master Dennet and try to cajole him into helping us!”

The wind caught his words and carried them away into the mountains where the sun had already colored the snow in pinks and yellows. The group of four people and one very disgruntled horse disappeared into the wilderness of the Frostbacks within minutes.

 

Despite Tairinn’s fears, the first day on the road passed almost without incident. 

When the group crossed the narrow pass and began a slow descent from the mountains, the wind rose again, carrying a smell of spring from the lowlands. The earth under their feet gradually lost the whiteness of snow and revealed a fresh mix of dirt and small pebbles from last year’s mudslide. But while the path, well trampled by the scouts and refugees, remained grim, the ground around it was bustling with life.  

Young patches of fresh grass sprouted near small streams of meltwater, dark green moss had already begun crawling onto the north sides of huge boulders that Breach had spit out some five days ago. Here and there Tairinn could see traces of small animals, rabbits or nugs, but they all seemed to disappear as soon as the group closed to their hiding holes. Only birds, free to roam unclouded skies as they please, followed Inquisition’s vanguard from a safe distance.

It was already getting dark when Cassandra, still edgy from her morning argument with Varic, offered to settle for the night. No one really wanted to oppose the Seeker and Tairinn nudged Hoka to leave the path for a small spruce grove on the side of the road. Not an ideal place to camp, but it had to make do.

Together women quickly unloaded Hoka and set both tents while Solas left to gather some firewood. Varric, much less cheerful after ten hours of nearly uninterrupted hiking, was building up a small bonfire near a shallow creek. 

“Old habits die hard,” Tairinn muttered, absently drawing a rough seal on the pliant earth with the heel of her boot under Cassandra’s surprised stare. “You never know when the wolf is just a wolf and not a possessed shapeshifter mage. What?” 

She shivered, trying to physically shake off unwanted attention and buried her gloveless fingers in Hoka’s thick mane.

“You’ve been through a lot. Shapeshifters, huh.” The Seeker shook her head in defeat and crouched in front of the mess of lines that Tairinn’s boot left on the ground. It was unfinished, but… quite efficient. And raised another question in Cassandra’s head. 

“And still you choose to sleep in the open instead of the safety of house walls?”

“Walls,” Tairinn scoffed like she smelled something disgusting, “they keep some things out, but they keep you in. I hate fighting in close quarters, Cass.”

The Nevarran stayed silent, thinking over another tidbit of information, while Tairinn beckoned Solas closer, helping him free his hands from a pile of old twigs he had found in the grove. Templars were known to be vigilant, even untrusting as some might say, but not a single person of their kind that Cassandra had met in her long life knew how to draw alert seals.  _ Seekers are taught to recognize and confront, but only mages can use those, _ she mused, _ so why… _

With her mouth hanging open she watched as Tairinn motioned at the seal and the elf shrugged in a silent agreement. With a practiced ease he let his staff encircle uneven lines and the magic rushed into the finished design, then into the next one and one more and more. Five glyphs were set alight by the power coming from the Fade in the matter of moments, flashing mute yellow before sipping into the ground, dormant until any unwanted guest tried to enter the circle.

“Useful trick, huh?”

Cassandra flinched, spooked by Varric’s tired voice at her left. 

“You’ve seen it before?” she asked hawkishly, hoping he hadn’t noticed the way her hand clutched the handle of her sword. He clearly hadn’t though, because there was that nostalgic aura about him again, the same kind she felt when she had been reading the Tale of the Champion.

“Yes, many times. Saved us a bunch.” He grinned at the memory and waved for the woman to follow him. “Things are going to get interesting, watch closely.” Then he sauntered towards Tairinn who lost all interest in the mage as soon as the seals faded and was inspecting the bonfire with suspicion.

“Hey, Lady, why wouldn’t you start the fire?” 

His smirk was a promise Cassandra wasn’t sure she wanted to interpret, but curiosity took better of her and she lowered herself on the ground to watch, her back leaning on the tent’s beam.

At the sound of his voice Tairinn jerked back from the pot he installed, looking like a nug before basilisk. Amber eyes wide, she swallowed loudly and backed off even more. “Do I really have to?” she asked petulantly and bumped into bemused Hoka. The horse visibly rolled her eyes and stomped downstream, looking like she had nothing to do with this crazy human.

“Oh, come on! I can’t cook if there’s no fire!” the dwarf chuckled lightly and threw her his flint and steel. “I bet you’ve been doing better in these past four years.”

She caught both items and tried one last time. “We can ask Solas? Cass? For Maker’s sake, why me?”

“Cause it’s more fun if it’s you, Lady. Come on, it’s dark already, we’re losing time.” 

Tairinn tried to stare him into submission, but was met with an innocent smile and laughing eyes. “Traitor,” she groaned and cautiously came to the firepit. He knew they all were tired and needed to unwind, but at her expense?  _ Oh, the payback will be so sweet,  _ she promised silently. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you guys.” She stroke fire. 

The very first spark, bright as midday sun, fell onto the twigs. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only one.

“I told you so,” Tairinn hissed, rolling on the ground moments later, trying to put out the flames eating at her sash. “Why you always have to be pain in the ass, puny dwarf?”

Varric didn’t answer, too busy laughing and helping Cassandra douse the sparks that fell onto the thick fabric of the tent. 

The Nevarran’s vigorous attempts nearly dismantled it by the time dazed by the bright explosion Solas finally took mercy on the victims of impromptu firework and muttered something scathing. The smouldering flap twitched as if it was alive and fell to the ground encased in a thin layer of ice.

“Andraste’s h-holy…” 

Tairinn straightened in the middle of the camp, looking at the chaos they had made. 

The fire in the pit was burning bright, dancing under the pot of already boiling water. The tent acquired a quite visible tilt to the left and was now dripping melting ice. Patches of last year grass were still burning at her feet so she stomped on them twice for a good measure and rolled her eyes. “Maa, you are insufferable.”

“I guess Keren was right calling you Agni, Lady,” the dwarf winked knowingly, “Things you do with fire...”

“Shut up,” she grumbled in response and went downstream to wash the grease and dirt off, leaving others to watch her reproachfully straight back. Deep inside Tairinn was glad she had a reason to walk away and hide her mortification because Varric’s game hit a little bit close to home right now. 

 

Keren really used to call her Agni for the very same reason - her relationship with fire had always been a strained one and often ended up in literal flames. She couldn’t believe the dwarf simply decided to play a practical joke on her though. More likely he was giving her another hint: he knew who she really was. The only question was what drove him to show it now. 

_ Did something happen to Mother? No _ , Tairinn bit her lover lip, shaking her armor off.  _ He’d tell if he knew something. Who then? Keren? That’s why he mentioned him? _

Something was wrong and it had to do with Hawke. Doing her best to wash quickly, Tairinn tried to catch her racing thoughts. Varric had keen eyes and knew more than he let on, but something stopped him from speaking openly and she was sure it wasn’t her. Cassandra or Solas then.

The mage was mildly suspicious but hardly seemed to be the type. Cassandra on the other hand… Memories of hushed whispers of Haven’s folk and Seeker’s comments balancing in between of rude and angry hit her like a six horse carriage, pushing a single phrase from the depths of Templar’s consciousness: “ _ You can suspect me in all you want, Seeker _ .” Cassandra had interrogated Varric too and she wanted to know Keren's whereabouts. 

Last time Tairinn's squad met Hawke and his cheery flock, they were crossing Nevarran border through Annwesen, southwest of Hasmal. The trio were fleeing Marches again and only now she remembered Fen grumble something about Chantry hounds on their tails. The dots finally connected - they were still hiding from Seekers wanting Keren's head for what happened at Kirkwall. That's why he needed her squad's help to cross the border unnoticed.

But it was months ago and now they could be anywhere from Hossberg to Alamar. Knowing their luck they could even... Tairinn cursed under her breath when realisation dawned on her. 

There was no way Varric had left Kirkwall by his own will, he cared too much for the city. Cassandra must have taken him to Haven for interrogation as he was the only credible thread that could lead Seekers to Hawke. And judging by the mixed signals he was sending, he either knew their location and it was too close for his comfort or he had no idea where they were. Potentially this option could be even worse.

Questions piled up, threatening to grow into another headache, but Tairinn couldn't just wave off what just happened. She needed to speak with Varric about all this, but it was hardly possible without drawing any unwanted attention when they continued to trek through the potentially hostile territory in a group of four. Seemed like it was time to remember her Mother's lessons on the Game.

 

She returned to the camp with a heap of armor in her hands and a careless expression on her face. Others, dwarf included, were already finishing a simple dinner he hastily prepared and, judging by their satisfied expressions, it wasn't poisoned or smelled of rot. 

Tairinn fished her fork out of the saddlebag and flopped onto her crossed legs near the fire, ready to try her luck with Varric's cooking. She had a theory she wanted to test.

“Early spring this year, innit. I wonder, if apple trees are already in bloom in Ostwick...” she said after the first bite of porridge settled in her stomach without protest. The subterfuge had been placed, now it was time for a real question. 

Tairinn threw her head back to stare at the starry sky and hummed,  “Seen any birds from the north yet?”

Solas ignored her question completely in favor of herbal infusion he was nursing in his cup, Cassandra raised her brow questioningly, but shook her head no. Varric, bless his sneaky ass, snorted as if she told some corny joke. 

“I doubt birds of paradise know of this place, Lady. Too cold and dull.”

“Never seen one. I came to miss blue cranes though, but you're probably right,” she nodded, watching his reaction from the corner of her eye. The man feigned ignorance as easily as breathing, but she noticed a subtle change in his posture and turned to him fully. 

“Ferelden is nowhere as good as Marches’ marshes so they better stay up there, don't you think? Chuckles, you take the first watch?” He changed the topic before Cassandra got suspicious of theirs sudden interest in ornithology. 

Tairinn, still munching on her food for once smelling like actual food, let him do it. She had gotten all the information she needed to be sure that Keren wasn't anywhere close to Ferelden. Seemed like Varric got some news from him in these past days because she clearly remembered he had been as clueless as herself right after the explosion. 

Not even arguing the third watch she was given, the woman hid a small smile behind the next forkful of her dinner. There were still questions she would like to have answered, but it could wait for now.

 

Days crawled by slowly and the team came closer and closer to the Crossroads with every passing hour. Mountains gave way to hills and open woodland turned into thick forest divided only by a broad line of Imperial Highway. Tairinn couldn't hide her delight as she watched the nature around her come alive and breathed in fresh air of mid-Drakonis. She made it through the winter. Twelfth week off lyrium was coming to an end. 

Good weather aside, past five days were… tense. In barely a week Tairinn had seen more carnage and bloodshed than in past couple of years combined. Ferelden was a mess and it was getting to everyone in the team.

Three times they crossed paths with small groups of not quite Circle looking mages, clad in heavy dark robes without any markings. Some of them ran at the sight of Cassandra's armor, but others seemed delirious and simply tried to crush everything on their way. They were too far gone and didn't even pay any attention to their surroundings, too busy throwing ice needles to pin each other to the trees as Chantry brother would do with a rare butterfly for his collection. 

That particular part of the forest would take decades to regrow.

At some point Tairinn tried and failed to negotiate with a squad of local Templars. They were fighting over a simple copper ring they had stolen from an elven woman living on the hill like dogs in the gutter. Aggressive and no doubt tortured by forced withdrawal in the absence of new lyrium dose, they saw no reason. 

Their blood was now rust on the wavy blade of Solas’ staff. He kept it activated constantly in past two days and Tairinn couldn't blame him for being overly cautious - this part of Ferelden was nothing short of warzone.

 

She checked the map again, looking for any landmarks that could indicate their current location, but the scale was too small for that. She could see most towns and some villages of known part of Thedas, but other than that - nothing. 

With a sigh she turned to Cassandra, hoping Nevarran would have something more detailed, but a soft rustle in the bushes grated on Tairinn's heightened senses like a knife on the glass. She hid the map on the folds of her sash hastily and gripped the hilt of her sword, ready for another fight.

Varric immediately took his usual position, flanking the source of the sound, and warriors moved in unison: Cassandra to check the bushes and Tairinn to cover Solas. Mage's fingers were already drumming on the handle of his staff, bringing the outline of a new barrier to life. Hoka, wayward when the situation allowed some liberties, sensed the change of the mood and stepped to the side of the road and out of the immediate danger, but close enough to charge if her rider was in danger. 

In uneasy silence everyone watched Cassandra part the branches of hazelnut bush.

“Nothing,” she whispered a moment later, shrugging some tension off, but kept her sword unsheathed.

If Tairinn's estimations were correct, the group had to reach Inquisition's forward camp in Hinterlands by now. She stilled and diverted all her attention to listening. She hoped to hear something like ravens’ cawing or scouts’ chatter, anything that would suggest the direction of the camp. And that she heard in the distance, muffled by running water and… sounds of fighting?

Silently the woman beckoned everyone closer and pushed the undergrowth further apart, opening a small path disappearing into the depths of the forest. She signed others to follow and, taking the reins of disgruntled Hoka, squeezed in between the branches. After a couple of minutes of walking the cawing grew closer and when the trees suddenly parted, Tairinn stumbled into the clearing full of people of all races and origins, maybe except for qunari.

“Maker's sweet buns, finally! I've already started thinking you got lost!” 

Bright eyed redhead dwarven girl in scout armor ran towards the group from the other side of the camp as people parted before her. She looked not older than twenty but Tairinn long since learned not to believe appearances when it came to non-humans. 

“The news came two days ago and Sister Leliana wants you to read this as soon as possible!” 

She continued to babble while looking for something in her belt pack. Tairinn knew this type - eager and energetic, clearly recruited not long ago, the scout tried to do her best so much, she got out of breath in a matter of seconds. Stifling an exhausted sigh, Tairinn pulled her horse out in the open, letting her teammates leave the thorny path too at last.

“Take a moment, scout. Breathe,” she ordered, but not unkindly and watched the girl's freckles disappear as her face acquired an amazing shade of red. 

“My apologies, Lady Herald… um, Ser?” She blinked rapidly, her green eyes taking in Templar's armor. 

Wondering how much the girl knows of Order regalia, the Marchan nodded curtly. “Tairinn or Lieutenant, whatever suits, but no Heralds, please.” She took a piece of paper from the scout and squinted at even lines of neat Josephine's handwriting _. _ “And you are?”

“Lead Scout Lace Harding, Ser!” The dwarf flashed her a toothy smile, trying to hide her embarrassment. “Please read the it and I will bring you up to date on our status.”

“Thank you, Harding,” Tairinn hummed absently, skimming the message. Cassandra was reading it too over her shoulder and, while both women knew something like that would happen, they hoped it would take Chantry more time to declare Inquisition a heresy. 

“Fuckers have it in for us.” 

She passed the letter to grumbling Varric and shook her head in defeat. They were tired and needed rest.

The dwarf needed proper healing, but Solas spent nearly all his mana during that unfortunate skirmish with rogue Templars, so instead of a close acquaintance with minor healing spell Varric was now experiencing all might of Darius’ ointment making skills. Thick bandage drenched in foul smelling liquid was no doubt burning his skin, but it was their best shot. What standard elfroot extract did in the span of two-three days, Darius’ experimental stuff healed three times faster. Yet they couldn't spare even one day to let the wound heal properly.

“...and we tried to fight them off, but we only have so many people. Templars attack in waves, mages just go all in,” reported Harding, staring at the newly arrived team nervously. “Please, come see for yourself.” 

The scout beckoned them to follow her and together they slowly crept to the edge of the cliff hidden by yet another hazelnut bush.

_ The view could be so great _ , Tairinn thought ruefully,  _ if not for all the blood and gore. _ And right she was.

 

From the cliff all of the Crossroads was seen in a bird's-eye view, a trading post no bigger than twenty houses built around a beautiful waterfall. Here Imperial Highway met Redcliffe road just before the monument of Andraste, carved in the stone of the landmark mountain, and created a three-way intersection that gave name to this place. It must have been beautiful once, but now four of the houses were nothing but piles of smoldering wood and another five were burning on the same side of the road. 

Even without getting closer Tairinn could say there was no chance putting the fire out: some of the mages must have cast a Wave of Flame. It wouldn't stop until the caster was dead or, if they planned the attack ahead, the mine seal destroyed. 

Cassandra, who must have come to the same conclusion, whispered a prayer to the Maker and turned away from the carnage only to clutch at her neck, trying not to throw up. Tairinn followed the line of her sight and swore. That's when she saw bodies. Memories hit her and she keeled over.

 

“No-no-no-no, Tai, hold on, breathe, hold on!”

Someone flips her over or maybe holds her up - Tairinn is too disoriented to comprehend - and wipes something sticky from her face. It’s wet and it fills her nose and throat, thick, almost gooey. Her mouth tastes like she has been licking Tevinter’s copper Somons or what’s their name was? 

Tairinn tries to remember and starts drifting away again.

“Silas, hold her upright for fuck’s sake! Ianthe, water! Ruth, get out of the way!”

Wetness becomes even wetter - is this even possible _ \-  _ and there’s something big in Tairinn’s lungs. It lies like a heavy stone on her chest, weighing her down,  _ so so heavy. _ Then there’s a puncture and it’s not painful at all, just a pinch, but it grows-grows-grows and searing hot-white wave crashes onto her, turning her inside out, pushing at the thin veil of her slipping control. 

She screams? Can she even? 

“Evelyn, she’s losing it!”

“Not. On. My. Watch. Prepare the seal.”

“She’s barely trained, Captain! No way…”

“Ruth, shut up and start the seal. Lita, help her!”

Something pulses behind Tairinn’s temples and darkness fades, purged from her inner vision by a beautiful silver light. It flickers and she reaches out for it instinctively, but it slips through her fingers like sand. The lines form unevenly, too thin where it matters, colored cobalt blue -  _ uncertainty _ \- and murky yellow -  _ fear _ , come whispers from the depths of her being. 

“Cap, she’s not going to make it.”

“Do your job, you Antivan piece of shit, and if she still doesn’t, you’re fucking leaving us at the closest outpost, mark my words. She’s a main branch Trevelyan, these morons don’t die easily.”

“Black Water is irreversible, Evelyn!”

“Watch me as I do it!”

The lines rise all around Tairinn, red with rage and all encompassing fury and golden with resolve. The weight on her chest shifts and gives way as the seal comes to completion and blooms like an exotic flower on her skin. It’s all light and nothing more for a brief moment. Perfection. 

Then wetness fades and sickeningly sweet smell of burnt flesh fills Tairinn’s nostrils. This time her screams are real. 

 

“Tairinn, breathe!”

Cassandra’s frightened voice sounded so far away, it seemed to be nothing but an illusion. In the haze of long forgotten memories, Tairinn couldn’t tell it apart from her nightmarish vision, at least not until vigorous shaking brought her back from the fight at Walde in 9:34 to Crossroads of 9:41.

“Oh...my…” The Templar wheezed, forcing the air into her lungs. She was still kneeling in front of the cliff edge, surrounded by her deeply disturbed team and frightened scouts. As the numbness slowly seeped out of her body, Tairinn felt Varric’s warm hand rub small circles on her nape and cursed. That episode was absolutely uncalled for.

She looked up, searching for Solas with her bleary eyes. He was standing a mere foot away, squinting suspiciously at Tairinn or, more likely, through her. She coughed to clear her still burning throat a bit and rubbed the underside of her jaw, feeling thin lines of an old seal burn.

“Someone from the apostates used Black Water down there,” she stated for everyone else, not looking away from the elf.  _ Not Circle, not apostate, how can he know? _ She still hoped he did. “What are the chances of someone outside Tevinter knowing this curse?”

The man blinked, ripped from his thoughts, and shook his head. In two graceful steps he crossed the distance between them and lowered himself on one knee before Tairinn. She let him take a look at the lines on her jaw without protest.

“I have never seen such application of this glyph,” he professed, tracing the outline with his index finger. “Is this a norm among the Templars?”

“No, these have been… special circumstances. Shouldn’t have worked now though.”

“Resonance, I guess,” the mage said and tapped Tairinn’s left hand with. “The mark must have reacted at the stress factor and filled the glyph with power. How  peculiar…”

“Are you done with mage-talk?” Varric interrupted tiredly. 

Not even two weeks had passed since the explosion that put all his life upside down again and watching Lady go down for the umpteenth time was… innerving. She had always been a survivor, he came to know, but it absolutely didn't mean he wanted her to constantly test her luck.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Scout Harding, you’ve been here longer. What’re your thoughts on how to deal with this?” 

Tairinn turned to take another look at the Crossroads, trying to ignore the scratchy feeling on her skin. 

_ Captain had said Black Water isn’t taught outside Tevinter. It's at least Altus level spell. How and, most importantly, who could use it here? _ Those questions were a heavy weight on her mind all the while she listened to Harding’s grim report.

 

The Crossroads had literally been besieged. 

Inquisition’s forces came just in time to fight off the first waves of attackers and managed to take people, locals and refugees alike, to the caves that sprawled through the uneven terrains of the Hinterlands, but that was the only good thing they got to achieve. Mother Giselle, the Orlesian the team came for, had been last seen during the evacuation. As of Horsemaster… 

His status was unconfirmed and, judging by the poor state of the Imperial Highway that led to Denerim, chances he was still alive were dwindling with every passing day. 

Everything in Tairinn screamed they had to set out immediately, but she could barely stand straight and walking might prove to be a fatal mistake. Varric seemed to be in no better condition, still clutching on his wounded hand. Solas was pale and twitchy, shivering every time a new spell was activated downhill. Only Cassandra somehow managed to stay in a relatively unhurt state, but even she was blinking owlishly. They all needed rest.

“Cass, what’s your opinion on all this?” Tairinn asked in a hushed tone once Harding grew silent and left for her Lead Scout’s duties.

“Are you going to be okay once we get closer to the source of that spell?” the woman answered with a question of her own. She kept her eyes trained on the statue of Andraste down below and Tairinn could swear she was praying soundlessly.

“Sure I’ll be, it’s you three who need to watch out. I’m not my Captain, I won’t be able to reverse Black Water if it hits any of you.”

“Can’t you just block it completely?” Varric must have been thinking of her much higher than Trevelyan was actually capable of. While it was slightly flattering, she didn’t want to encourage his high hopes.

“Do I look like two…” she stole a glance on yet another fight down below and corrected herself, “three fully trained Templar squads? I’m good with Negation, Inky Fingers, but not in an eighteen-well-rested-men way.”

“We camp here for the night,” Cassandra ended their bickering, finally voicing what others dreaded to say. 

By staying put they were sentencing yet more people to death in the half-ruined village, but rushing in could easily end their own lives, leaving Inquisition without any hope of closing the Breach. In the end it always came down to no-win situations, both warriors knew it all too well.

Once she felt steady enough, Tairinn slowly stood up and nearly swerved into dozing off Hoka.  _ If even this walking nightmare is tired... _ With a sigh she patted horse’s side and began unstrapping both tents with Cassandra’s help.

“We’ll attack half an hour before the dawn,” she instructed Harding when the dwarf came to bid the group good night even though the sun was still out. “Wake me if it starts to rain demons again.” 

With that she yawned loudly till something in her jaw clicked and fell face first into her sleeping bag. 

 

_ Block the blow. Roll. Negate the Ice Needle. Stab. Crush. Roll back. Block. _

Familiar movements connected into a deadly dance and in the first rays of rising sun Tairinn pushed forward, for once taking Cassandra’s place as the head of the group to shield them from possible damage. 

She was taunting the mage hiding in the only unburnt house on this side of the road, trying to draw him out. All his henchmen, and she was sure they were no Circle mages even if they robes said otherwise, were dead now. He was the last man standing between Tairinn’s team and Crossroads.

“Show me what you’ve got!” she growled at him in badly accented Tevene. “Incaensor! What is your game? Who is your master?”

It made the man cry out in rage and he jumped out of the safety of his barrier, casting the spell noone outside of Tevinter was taught to use. Time seemed to slow down as Tairinn rushed forward, her bastard sword cutting the air in nothing but a blur of metal and spilled blood. Still it was too late. 

In his last living moments the mage managed to rip the power from the Fade and pour it into the spell. Just as his body hit the ground, Tairinn rushed to where a pitch black droplet was forming in her inner vision and used her body to cover others from the explosion that followed. When Black Water came at her, she was ready.

The seal on her jaw pulsed, tapping into the Fade through the mark on her hand. The world shifted and shook as inky liquid leaked down Tairinn’s face and neck like water, obedient to the pull of gravity, instead of clogging her throat and filling her airways. No one could be ready for this, no matter how many times it happened. Even one was too much.

Cursing through gritted teeth, the woman wiped the blackness with the end of her long crimson sash, leaving dirty smears on the fabric, and kicked the body of the mage. She wasn't even fighting a sneer. If there was something magical she truly hated, it was whole entropy business. 

_ Good thing I’ve never crossed paths with the Hero of Ferelden, that might have ended badly _ , she thought and turned to her team.

“The road to Crossroads is now open.” 

Solas wasn't even looking at her as he spoke. He was watching the place there the spell erupted with an unreadable expression, but the drumming of his fingers on the wood of his staff betrayed his agitation.

While elf was content on watching the last tendrils of magic dissipate slowly in the air Tairinn didn't have neither time nor desire to stay at this place any longer that was explicitly necessary. She wiped the blood from her blade with dead Tevinter's cloak, readjusted the shield that kept on grating on the mark and bared her teeth in a feral grin. 

“Let’s get this party started!” 

 

The sun reached zenith and began falling onto the mountains and Inquisition’s forces were still busy flushing the enemy out of the trading village. Templars barricaded themselves in the tunnels leading east and, consequently, horsemaster’s farm, while mages occupied the houses near the Redcliffe road. 

Tairinn’s team was stretched thin, it being just four people so their day turned into one long fight.

Slowly but surely they moved towards the center of Crossroads, collecting shallow wounds, cuts and burns and leaving a trail of dead bodies in their wake.  _ Three flasks of elfroot extract, two, one,  _ Tairinn kept counting. Fatal injuries were simply a matter of time. 

Insistent and unyielding, the call shook her body when Tairinn was least prepared.

Low on mana again, Solas had no choice but to drink a lyrium potion and its intoxicating smell nearly made the Templar lose her footing. Like hypnotized she took a step in his direction, almost absently ripping open the throat of a mage woman running at her. Tairinn's sword pierced flesh and cut the sounds of agony. She kept walking.

The body fell at her feet but she payed it no attention, too focused on a glistening cyan film coating elf's fingers as he threw the vial away to cast another spell. Lyrium was calling to her. She kept walking.

Tairinn felt the drumming of Solas’ heart, knew the rhythm that pushed blood flow through his body, saw the blue spread. She could almost taste it at the base of her tongue, neon and sharp, deafening and suffocating. Possessive. Greedy.

It wanted her back. It wanted her all, body and soul.

Lyrium seeped into mage's blood. It scattered like stars on the night sky, merged with his magic, dying down. It was beautiful in its unnaturality, the laws of the world breaking to bring the power to the one who sought it. Blasphemy and blessing at once.

Tairinn came to a stop inches from him, towering over the man. The beat of the ancient song in him faltered when he looked into her eyes and found only black abyss, endless and ageless. It stared back at him, into him. Familiar. Laughing. Impossible. 

“Flee,” she said in a language almost too old even for him to remember, “Run.” And Solas did, giving in to his survival instinct, disbelieving what he had just seen.

 

He disappeared, fadestepping away in a blink of an eye, his mouth dry and mind blank. Memories assaulted him, reminders of reality, of days when the world was whole and grass green eyes of his… his… 

The man fell to his knees, clawing at his throat, whining like a wounded animal. Silhouettes and shadows, cries and whispers that had haunted him at nights for past four years took form and that form was his worst nightmare. 

The eyes of abyss, Naavis. The woman who bore his only love. Forgotten One, whose descend into oblivion was his doing. The Mother of Night.

He felt no anger, no fear, but grief so all-consuming, it was impossible to breathe. She found him and there was no way he could outrun her now. So much not yet done, so much yet again lost... 

 

A hand on his shoulder broke him out of his lethargy. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Varric joked offhandedly, pushing him to stand up. 

The sounds of the battle slowly dawned on Solas, another illusion, real or not? He did not know, but dwarf’s insistent prodding make him more aware. He opened his eyes only to see armored fighters of the Inquisition encircle the two of them, keeping attackers away. The reinforcements finally came.

“Who is she?” the elf ground out, gripping his staff with so much force the wood nearly gave in. Solas glanced at the fingerprints he left and turned to stare at Varric as coolly as he could master. “Who is this woman?”

The dwarf met his gaze seriously. His ever present smirk slowly morphed into a deep frown as he watched Solas cross his arms, unconsciously closing off even more than he usually did.

“Depends on why you ask,” he said briskly in the end. “But no matter how many masks there’s to her, enemy is not one of them.” 

 

Emptiness felt like a punch in the gut but it was what brought Tairinn back to reality. The void in her eyes drew back as taste-smell-sight of lyrium disappeared, but the memory stayed. Blue were Solas’ eyes, just like  _ it _ , and just as treacherous he felt to her. Dangerous.

The pull had never been so colossal in all her life as it was now, gripping at her insides and threatening to wrench them away, digging into her veins. 

_ Twelve weeks _ , Tairinn tried to remind herself.  _ Roll. Slash. Cut. Fall back. Block.  _ It worked.

 

It was nearly six hours since they left the forward camp when the remains of both mages and Templars staged one final attack in a desperate attempt to hold their control over the village. Enemy groups began to crawl out at them from all sides like cockroaches fleeing a burning house.

Tairinn didn’t even try to reason with the remaining Templars this time. She saw it in their empty, mad eyes: their choice had been made long ago and the fight, even as hopeless as this  one was all that’s left for them.

She hadn’t spoken a word to the mages. Men and women were rushing at her with their staffs ready, all their mana already spent by then.  They were attacking illogically and through the mistakes in their tactics she saw panic and  _ the end _ . For most, it was the end.

Negation after negation formed in the inner vision of the Templar woman, unraveling the spells threatening to wreak havoc on her small team and Inquisition’s soldiers. She was used to fight like this, pushing her body to the limit and sometimes even past it, but the mark on her left hand cept throbbing more and more insistently with every use of her abilities. Tairinn knew, she didn’t have much left in her.

They had to hurry.

Another blow fell on her shield, striking it with the force of smith’s hammer meeting the anvil, and the straps grated on the mark, causing Tairinn to stumble. She used the momentum of her fall to crouch and strike low, stabbing the man above her into the unprotected thigh. He screamed from anguish and pain, already starting to fall, but the woman pushed him backwards with all the strength she had left.  

He landed onto the wounded archer’s stray arrow and as it tore man’s aorta open, the ground under his feet lit up with pale pearly light. Thin needles of ice impaled his thrashing body, sending blood everywhere, and Tairinn turned away, nauseated by the sight of a gaping wound in what once was eye socket. 

Blood and gore were flesh and bone of every war. Pity the knowledge did nothing to ease the guilt.

 

“This one is the last.”

Deep, raspy voice of a man with corporal's markings in his armor rang through the vandalized village like rumble of distant thunder. It echoed in the silence that fell over the fighters, an understanding of what happened finally catching up with them. Crossroads was freed but the hardest part was only about to begin.

“Send the runner to the forward camp,” Tairinn asked no one in particular as she wiped her blade. It would need some proper polishing if she wanted to keep it in a good shape, but that had to wait. 

The silence stretched, but a young boy, a city elf if his bare face was any indication, pushed through the crowd and stood at attention before her. Tairinn felt her left eye twitch at the sight of his nervously inquiring expression and unconsciously squared her shoulders, trying to project the confidence she wasn't feeling at all.

She wasn't used to people catching her every word. She wasn't used to speaking to this many. She wasn't ready for this, but the throbbing mark on her hand was a constant reminder - there was no getting away. 

Tairinn was a fly caught in spider web of someone's twisted game and all eyes were set on her now. She was a fucking religious symbol come alive and had to do her best to use it in Inquisition's favor.

“And have Inquisition forces start clearing the rubble and putting away the dead,” she added in a voice she usually reserved for lecturing Darius on the dangers of his experiments after a moment of contemplation.

It seemed to work. The runner saluted her sharply and disappeared in a blur of steel and green, prompting his comrades to finally spring into action. They quickly organized themselves in groups and proceeded to their respective tasks: establishing outposts and making sure the territory was livable again.

 

The crowd dispersed and Tairinn slowly but surely made her way to the uphill where Varric was standing by Solas’ side, they both covered in blood but visibly unharmed. The elf flinched at the sight of her but the woman only shrugged apologetically, mouthing one word, ‘lyrium’ and turning to look for Cassandra. The Seeker jumped down from the boulder closing the path leading to the farms, ducked a falling tree that soldiers planned to use for a pyre and joined her teammates, greeting them with a terse nod.

Together, tripping and slipping on the remains of the houses, carts and people, they made a beeline to the entrance of the cave where Inquisition’s scouts were dismantling the barricade.

“Crossroads are freed,” the Templar announced into the darkness, before slipping through a narrow hole in between of two piles of wet firewood. When her eyes got used to the darkness, she saw men and women bristling at her with what seemed to be all weapons and tools sharp enough to do some damage.

Slowly, Tairinn pulled the glove from her left hand and in the ethereal green glow of the mark repeated again, “Crossroads are freed. Inquisition is here to help.” The rest of her words were drowned by relieved cries of the locals.

“Your Worship?” a silent murmur at her left almost had Tairinn go for her sword, but Cassandra’s heavy hand dropped on her shoulder, stilling her almost automatic response.

“Corporal Vale,” the Seeker nodded at the thirty-something man with a bandage on his thigh and a deep scar on the left side of his face. “Report.”

Tairinn felt the beginnings of a headache grow into a full fledged migraine as Corporal gave them his story. She was absolutely sure by now, something did not add up.

The mages appeared in Crossroads two days after the explosion. Way too fast. At first they kept to themselves and mostly ignored the people arriving to the main square, setting their camp further in the forest to stay away from refugees. But when the second explosion shook the land and skies stopped raining demons, they began to become agitated. Templars arrived soon after and all hell broke loose.

“The ones out here are just apostates.” Corporal seemed so sure of his words, but Cassandra threw a glance at Tairinn that spoke volumes. They both knew that was not exactly true. Circle runaways, even though they had some access to the archives, could not possess neither skill no knowledge shown by the attackers. 

The news of rebel mages in Redcliffe wasn’t exactly a news, but Tairinn filed the expression with which the man reported about them for a later contemplation.

“We’ll put our main efforts in putting the fire out and getting the wounded out of here,” the man finished. “Your Worship, Revered Mother Giselle is has been waiting for you since the word about your miraculous escape from the Fade came. Please talk to her.”

No longer hoping that people here would call her by the name, Tairinn simply nodded and took a step into the darkness, trying not to collide with people who were cautiously coming out into the light.

 

“And so the Herald of Andraste arrives…” 

Tairinn was unable to fully hide the frown as she approached the woman in blood stained  and no longer crisp white Chantry apparel. That was a voice of a person who was well versed in the games of mind and bold enough to show it. Or hopeless to the extent of not caring anymore.  

“I must confess, I pictured you…”

“Less sacrilegious?” Tairinn tsked and kneeled in front of a delirious wounded scout lying on a blood soaked cloth at Revered’s feet. “White skin, long dress, a spear in hand?”

The Orlesian wiped the sweat from scout’s forehead and hummed, appearing deep in thoughts.

“I have not anticipated a Templar, let us leave it at that,” she said at length, watching Tairinn opening her last elfroot extract flask. Together they managed to pry man’s mouth open and pour some sharply smelling liquid in. Then the older woman looked up and inquired grandly, “You came to right the world?”

The Templar scoffed at the implied accusation.

“We’re here to close the Breach, Revered Mother. I know what history holds and Inquisition is in no way what it once had been.”

“A heresy?”

“Some could say so.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence between two women, then Mother Giselle spoke again.

“You are a troubled child, I see. If you will have my advice then, travel to Val Royeaux. Try to reason with Grand Clerics, speak with Revered Mothers. Most of them will ignore you of course, too busy playing politics, but you do not have to convince everyone.”

“Divide and conquer. How typical of Chantry.” Tairinn caught another snide reply before it left her mouth. Revered, as all Orlesians, was full of pretentiousness when it came to actual help. Lots of words, nothing tangible and it grated Tairinn’s insides. Oh how she wished Revered Mother Nita was here instead... 

“Typical, yes.” Orlesian chose to ignore the jibe. “And quite efficient. It will divide them and give you some freedom of action. You,” she barely touched Tairinn’s still smeared with blood vambrace with the tips of her fingers and lowered her voice, “and the Inquisition.”

“And what about you?” the warrior raised her brow in question, standing up. She had enough of this small talk.

“I will leave for Haven with the occasion, child, so Sister Leliana can have a list of names to start with. You meanwhile go help these people, let the rumors of your willingness to do good spread so you can call for their support. Maker watch over you.”

With that she walked away and in her proud step Tairinn couldn’t see anything but condescension. The old hag knew full well Inquisition will intervene in the war, even if for the prospect of locals’ support, and she played her card, making it sound like her  _ motherly _ advice.  _ Meddlesome… _

Tairinn took a deep breath, trying to calm down. She was in no position to choose her allies even if some of them were absolutely infuriating. Honestly, she’d rather deal with a Circleful of magi than with any amount Chantryfolk, but Inquisition needed her hand and fighting skills, not opinion.  

Something else was setting her on edge. Distant, muted by obsidian and stone, was the deep thrum of the Fade spilling into the real world. A rift. 

With an irritated snarl Tairinn turned on her heel and left the cave. She had a Corporal to talk to and a Horsemaster to find.

 

The man in question was waiting for her at the hillock at the base of the cliff along with other members of her team. Though tired, they straightened a bit with her arrival and Tairinn once again noticed the way Solas tried to put as much distance between them. 

_ Did he finally get what I am able to do to his kind? _ she thought, but quickly dismissed the idea. There were matters much more important at hand than elf’s realizations.

“How can we help?” she inquired curtly, rocking back and forth on her heels in front of the Corporal Vale. 

The hum of the rift nagged at her nerves like the sound of nails on the glass and all this situation could delay the group in the region for much longer than she had anticipated. The man stood even more at attention than she thought was possible and went on listing all the problems the Crossroads and its current dwellers had. 

“Ahem,” Varric whistled in surprise when the Corporal fell silent, slightly out of breath, “that’s a good two weeks more of work than we expected, Lady. The place is safe for now, but I wouldn’t bet it can hold off a coordinated attack with the forces we have here and the four of us need to get to the horsemaster. What do we do?”

“We leave right now,” Tairinn ground out and turned sharply towards the cliff where the Inquisition’s camp was had been set by Harding. “There’s no time to waste on going back up, we have to get to Dennet by midnight.”

“And what about your horse, Your Worship?” Corporal asked tentatively. “The runner…”

“Send Harding a word, have two full scout squads follow us to the farms with two hour delay. No, make it three.” Tairinn rubbed the nape of her neck, deep in thought. “They can use my horse to move some of the supplies.”

“Will do!” The man saluted and beckoned the runner closer to relay the orders while the Templar turned to her team. Exhausted, but prepared.

Migraine kept pulsing right behind her nose, making it harder to concentrate on the task. 

They had about eight hours of daytime left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some blood, some gore as usual, nothing really descriptive for now I think

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:  
> Short comments  
> Long comments  
> Questions  
> Constructive criticism  
> “<3” as extra kudos
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> This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper”, I sure will be happy to receive it, but won't respond!


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